


Caged Birds Don't Sing

by BlackFriar



Category: Young Justice (Cartoon)
Genre: Dark, Explicit Language, Gen, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-05
Updated: 2017-05-03
Packaged: 2018-09-15 02:30:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 52,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9214862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackFriar/pseuds/BlackFriar
Summary: After a terrifying ordeal, Dick finds that survival sometimes comes at a price.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story is about PTSD (Post Traumatic Stress Disorder) which means I really put Dick through the wringer in this opening chapter. Even by my standards this chapter is violent and dark, so please be warned before reading.

“In the face of pain, there are no heroes.” George Orwell.

oOo

When Dick wakes up, he’s not sure where he is. He knows he’s in a small cage – possibly a dog cage – he knows there’s something around his neck, and he knows his feet are bare. He can’t see these things because there’s a mile of tape around his eyes, but he can feel them.

It’s cold and there’s water dripping somewhere. A gravelly voice makes him jerk. “’Bout time you woke up.”

Dick frowns. Why didn’t he know someone else was there? He’s done enough sensory deprivation training to know when someone else is there.

He tenses when he hears keys rattle and the cage open. The second a hand grasps his ankle he reacts, kicking and fighting for all he’s worth as he’s dragged out, until someone punches him in the face. His head reels from the force of the blow.

“Try that again and you’ll be sorry,” the gravelly voice rasps in his ear.

Like Dick is going to listen to that. He’s Robin the Boy Wonder; there’s no way he’s going to let some jerk who sounds like a bad western tell him what to do! 

He brings his knee up hard into the stomach of the man leaning over him, and rolls to the side…only for his head to snap back. The tugging on his throat tells him that whatever is around his neck is secured to something else.

And then a massive fist cracks into his jaw. Once…twice…three times. Dick groans; this guy hits hard.

Without warning, he’s rolled onto his stomach and his arms are yanked behind him. Dick tries to struggle, but his limbs feel weirdly heavy. Strong hands hold his wrists in place and something is tugged over his hands, then pulled tight around his wrists. Zip-ties. He can tell by the way they’re cutting into his skin.

A hand curls tightly in his hair and a weight settles on him, crushing him against the floor. Dick can feel hot breath on his cheek. This guy must have gingivitis or something because his breath stinks.

“Listen up, rich boy,” the man growls, and Dick’s stomach flutters because crap! He’s here as Dick Grayson, not Robin, and that limits his options somewhat. “Pull a stunt like that again and I’ll make you wish you’d never been born, got it?”

Dick forces his head into a nod, scraping his cheek along cold concrete.

“Good. Because I only have one rule and you’d better obey it.”

“What’s…the rule?” Dick manages to ask. It’s kind of hard to speak when your lungs are being crushed.

“You do everything I say.”

Dick wants to snort or make a joke because is that all? But he’s in no position to make smart remarks and this guy doesn’t strike him as much of a funnyman. He nods, scraping his cheek again, and the rough hands release him.

He inhales as the weight gets off him. He doesn’t say anything because he needs a second to think – how did he get here? The last thing he remembers is going to the restroom at the Wayne Foundation’s annual charity ball. Dick wracks his brain but nothing else comes. He has no idea how he got from there to here…wherever here is. He’s not sure he wants to know.

The man is removing the something from his neck. It’s metal, Dick knows that much, but it’s not a chain. Some sort of collar maybe? Whatever it is, it’s a first for Dick. He’s never been restrained by his neck before, and Dick has plenty of experience with being restrained – occupational hazard of being a child crimefighter. And the only son of a world-famous billionaire.

The second is probably what’s landed him in this situation if the guy is calling him by his name. Dick wishes he knew how the man managed to abduct him from the charity ball because security is usually pretty tight at those things. He won’t ask though; he has a feeling that would only earn him another fist to the face.

He’s rolled onto his back and the man straddles him. The weight presses his pinned arms into the floor and Dick winces because it kind of hurts.

“You’re gonna do something for me now,” the man says in a low voice.

Dick wants to tell him to go to hell, but playing along is the safer option. “What?”

“You’re gonna beg. You’re gonna beg _real_ pretty.”

Wait, what? 

Before Dick can react, hands are on his neck, squeezing hard. He splutters, trying to buck the man off, but it’s useless because this guy weighs a ton and Dick hasn’t a snowball’s chance in hell of throwing him off. 

“Beg!” the man hisses in his ear.

Dick chokes, frantically rolling his head left and right in an effort to break the hold. “Guk! W-what?” 

“Beg me not to hurt you. Beg for your life.”

Oh, this isn’t good. He sounds more like a psychopath than your run-of-the-mill-kidnapper. Dick is confused, and more than a little panicked. What is going on?

“C’mon, little rich boy – beg,” the man coos at him, and Dick jerks convulsively, unable to help himself because he. Can’t. _Breathe!_

His legs are kicking while his lungs heave, desperately trying to suck in air. The grip on his throat is painfully tight and Dick’s eyes water from the pressure.

“BEG!” the man shouts and shakes Dick violently by the throat. 

“S-stop!” Dick manages. 

“You don’t tell me to stop!” the man spits through what sounds like clenched teeth. “You _beg!_ ”

Blood is roaring in his ears and the pressure on his throat makes Dick feel like his head might explode. Being strangled hurts worse than he could ever have imagined. 

Dick doesn’t want to play whatever this sick game is, but his instinct for survival is kicking in. Rational thought doesn’t stand a chance. “D-don’t…” he chokes out, then spits and splutters as the hands wring his neck so brutally he thinks it’s going to snap.

“Louder,” whispers the man maliciously. “I can’t hear you.”

Behind the tape Dick’s eyes are squeezed shut, and he’s vaguely aware that he’s making noises he’s never heard himself make before. 

“BEG!” the man roars, making Dick jerk.

“P-p-please…” Dick gasps and the hands loosen their hold, “don’t…” Begging makes him cringe, but he’s fairly certain that’s the only thing that’s going to keep him alive. And right now, staying alive is his first priority. He can concentrate on everything else later. 

The hands stop throttling him and Dick frantically sucks in air. A thumb strokes his throat. “Such a pretty neck,” the man whispers hoarsely, breath hot on Dick’s cheek. 

Dick turns his face away because the man’s breath doesn’t just smell, it _reeks_.

“Beg for me again,” the man orders, his voice low and strained with excitement. And that flat out scares Dick, because it means he’s dealing with a serious kink. It means Bruce won’t get a ransom call. And unless Batman finds him or he gets himself out, Dick will die here. 

He needs to survive until one of those things happens, so he does what the man wants him to do. “Don’t hurt me,” he whispers. The words sound thick with humiliation.

“Beg me not to kill you,” the man croons. 

Swallowing, his face hot with shame, Dick complies. “Don’t kill me.”

The hands tighten a little. “Say please.”

“Please.”

The grip around Dick’s neck squeezes into a painful stranglehold and he chokes. “You’re not _begging_ ,” the man hisses. “You need to beg like you mean it.”

But Dick can’t. He can’t breathe. His lungs are pleading for air while his arms are screaming out from being crushed into the floor. His legs are kicking and his eyes are streaming. This is agony. 

“Please…” he finally manages, when the hands loosen a little. “Plea– guk! Don’t…”

“Good boy, that’s it,” groans the man. “Keep begging.”

Dick feels sick. And angry, because what is _wrong_ with this freak? “Please– ack! Don– guk!”

Every nerve in Dick’s body is thrumming with fear and desperation. Blood is pounding in his head. The pressure on his throat is unbearable and Dick feels like those strong fingers are going to break his neck. 

“Beg for me.” The man’s voice is breathy and ragged, and something in it makes Dick feel dirty. 

“P-p-please…” he splutters. His head is going to explode and his whole body jerks convulsively. A frantic little whimper trickles out between the gasps. 

The man groans and squeezes harder. “Beg for me…beg real pretty…”

Dick’s stomach revolts and he wants to vomit. This _can’t_ be happening to him! It just can’t!

“P-p-p– ack!” He chokes and splutters, trying to do what the man wants. But it’s impossible with those hands throttling the life out of him.

Lights flash behind the darkness of the tape and all Dick can hear now is the rushing of blood in his ears. His chest is heaving and jerking as his lungs strain desperately for air. The pressure on his throat is excruciating and spittle is foaming at the corners of his mouth. 

Then the world spins and reality tears itself away from him.

oOo

When Dick wakes again, he’s confused. Is he dead? He sure feels dead: his throat is tight with pain, his head is throbbing and his limbs have a horrible, dead weight to them. Dick swallows, trying to work some moisture back into his dry mouth, but that only exacerbates the swollen agony in his throat. Worst of all, he can feel something around his neck again. If he’s dead, then this must be hell.

Dick’s not sure if he believes in hell, but if it’s real he’s pretty sure he doesn’t deserve to be here. 

His senses tell him he’s back in the dog cage. Dick thinks he might be indoors, but it’s cold and he can still hear water dripping. He shivers, rubs his arms, and promptly realizes two things: the first is that his jacket is gone, leaving him with just his shirt for warmth in the middle of November. The second is that his hands are free. Now would be a good time to make a break for it. He reaches up to unwrap the tape around his eyes, but someone bangs the cage and he jerks.

“Touch that tape again and I’ll break your fucking fingers!” the gravelly voice rasps. 

Dick hears keys rattle and the cage opening. His heart starts to beat faster and he clutches at the wire cage. A hand grabs his ankle and Dick kicks out. His bare foot connects with the man’s face and there’s a grunt of pain. It encourages him to keep kicking because Dick Grayson or not, all bets are off and he wants out of here.

But his movements are weirdly sluggish and he can’t see. The man seizes his flailing legs and yanks hard. Dick keeps kicking and his fingers cling even more tightly to the cage. 

“C’mon, c’mon,” the man growls, more to himself than to Dick, tugging violently until Dick’s fingers are torn from the wire and he’s being dragged out of the cage. 

“Get off!” Dick yells, twisting, kicking, bucking, punching and writhing. He’s not going down without a fight. His fists strike blindly and he struggles for all he’s worth, but this guy is so much stronger than he is.

It’s only a matter of minutes before he’s subdued. _Him_ – Robin the Boy Wonder, partner to the Batman. He twists in the man’s tight hold, trying to work out how this could have happened.

“You’re a…feisty little fucker,” the man pants, forcing Dick to the floor and holding him there. “I’ll give you that.” 

“Bite me!” Dick snarls, before his head is smacked into the concrete.

“You listen to me, you little shit,” the man grinds out. “You do what I say, because if I think you’re going to be too much trouble, I _will_ kill you, understand?”

Head reeling, Dick stops struggling. Every instinct he has is screaming to fight back, but this man is bigger and stronger than he is. He can also see; a key facet of defence that Dick is missing. Not even on his best day could Dick win this. Fighting back is pointless if it gets him killed. He needs to survive until Batman gets here or he gets himself _out._

Defeated, he nods.

“Good boy.” The man’s tone is nauseatingly smug. “Now, I’m gonna give you some water and let you use the can. Try anything and I’ll hurt you so bad that you won’t wanna fight back ever again, capiche?”

“Yes,” Dick grits out.

The thing around his neck is removed, and the man gets to his feet, hauling Dick with him. “Walk forward,” the man commands, hands still holding tight to Dick’s arms. Dick obeys. 

“Stop!” the man orders after just a few steps. He lets go of Dick and something is thrust into his hands. “Drink,” the man tells him, and Dick realizes it’s a bottle. 

He raises the bottle tentatively to his lips and sips. Water. Dick quickly chugs it down. It feels incredible against his raw throat. 

When he’s finished, the man takes the bottle and steers him in the opposite direction. Dick counts his steps, trying to get a sense of his surroundings. He’s definitely inside, but there’s an odd echo to their feet against the concrete floor, and Dick can still hear water dripping somewhere. Wherever they are, it sounds in need of repair.

They veer left and stop suddenly. “Toilet’s in front of you,” the man informs him, but doesn’t move.

Dick feels his face go warm. Does he expect him to…?

“Well? What are you waiting for?” the man demands.

“I…you…” 

The man shakes him. “I’m not leaving you here alone, and if you don’t hurry on then I’ll do it for you! Unless you don’t have to go?”

Dick shakes his head because he actually really needs to go. Humiliation burning through him, Dick undoes his pants and does what he needs to as quickly as he can. He prays this guy isn’t a pervert.

When he’s done, the man hustles him back in the direction they came from and Dick’s hears the man’s breathing pick up as they approach the cage. Something akin to ice shivers through him when he realizes the man’s rapid breathing is down to excitement.

He’s going to strangle him again.

Dick wrests his arms out of the man’s grip. There is no way in _hell_ he’s going through that torture again! He drops to the floor and delivers a sweeping leg kick to the man behind him. Dick hears the man go down as his legs are taken from under him and backs up. He can’t see, but he can hear the man’s heavy breathing and Dick uses that to focus on his position. He clenches his fists. All he needs is to get in one good hit, buy enough time to get the tape off. Because if he could see, he would stand a chance.

He can hear the man clambering to his feet. “You’ll be sorry,” he says in a low voice. “I _told_ you not to pull any shit.”

Dick doesn’t answer. Instead, he concentrates on listening to the man’s movements. When the man charges at him, Dick sidesteps quickly, whirling and backing away. He just needs one shot, one good shot to make this guy go down.

But that hope goes out the window when he’s tackled suddenly from the side. This guy is fast for someone so big. 

They hit the ground hard, the man on top of him, and Dick is winded by the fall. Dazed, he can feel a strong hand seize both of his wrists and pin them over his head.

“Little bastard!” the man snarls. “The other boys didn’t give this much trouble.” 

_Other boys?_ Dick wonders, but is distracted by the man tugging on his belt buckle. He turns cold. “Wh-what are you doing?” he squeaks, trying to pull his wrists out of the man’s grip. 

The man responds by tightening his hold. “Making you sorry.”

The feeling of his belt being pulled through its loops nearly paralyzes Dick with fear. “No…don’t…” he gasps out between struggles. The bones in his wrists shift and slide painfully under the pressure of the man’s grip, but Dick can’t pull them free.

“Begging for me already?” the man whispers. 

Something slides around Dick’s neck and he can hear a soft clinking by his ear. His heart is _pounding_ and he can hardly catch his breath. He’s ashamed of his own fear. Robin isn’t supposed to feel fear. Robin has faced Joker and Two-Face, even Scarecrow, the master of fear himself. One man shouldn’t scare him.

Except he isn’t Robin right now, he’s just Dick. He has no gadgets to defend himself and no Batman to back him up. And he’s up against someone who’s bigger, stronger, and holds all the cards.

Dick’s wrists are released just as something is pulled tight across his neck. He gags and his hands go immediately to his throat to find a strip of leather. The man is using his own belt to strangle him! Dick claws at the leather…smashes his fists into the man’s torso…scrabbles frantically at the man’s hands, but it’s like he doesn’t even _feel_ it!

Dick tries not to freak out. He knows he shouldn’t panic, knows he needs to think clearly, but he can’t breathe and the pain is beyond comprehending. Then the leather is pulled even tighter, making Dick writhe with agony. He can feel the buckle biting into his skin. 

“I told you I’d make you sorry if you tried anything,” the man whispers in his ear.

Trying to get his fingers in between the leather and his throat, Dick ignores him.

“Are you sorry yet?” the man asks, then wrenches the belt so tightly, so brutally, that Dick is gagging on pain. He scratches the man’s hands while his feet scrabble against the floor. And somewhere in the frenzy of pain and panic, Dick realizes that he’s terrified.

“Not so feisty now, are you?” the man sneers.

The edges of his consciousness are blackening out when the belt finally loosens. Dick coughs and sucks in broken gasps. But his head hasn’t even begun to stop spinning when the belt is being yanked tight and he’s choking again. 

“C’mon, little rich boy,” says the man in a slow, breathy voice. “Start begging.”

But Dick can’t. He can’t breathe, can’t fight back, can’t do anything other than jerk and make those god-awful retching noises. 

“You know what I want,” the man croons, reeking breath smothering Dick. “Just give me what I want.”

Dick would if he could. This is horrific, utter agony and he wants it to stop. He’ll do anything to make it stop, begging included. He’s scratching his own neck as he claws at the belt, desperate to end the torture.

“Beg for me, you little fucker!” the man spits at him, and yanks the belt hard while a hand presses down on Dick’s throat. The pressure makes him feel like his eyes are going to pop and he claws wildly at the man’s hand.

Just when he’s about to slip into darkness, the hand disappears and the belt loosens again, letting him breathe. Dick gulps down oxygen while reality tunnels back to him. “P-p…p-please…stop…” he wheezes, the moment he can. “P-please…no…more…”

“Keep begging,” the man orders, pulling the belt taut again, although not so tightly as before.

“No, plea– guk!” Dick splutters, spit rolling down his chin. The pain is excruciating. “Please…don’t– ack! Please…”

“That’s…it,” the man manages, breathing almost as ragged as Dick’s. “Keep begging.”

The humiliation, the pain and the terror overwhelm him and he gives a sob. The man responds by pulling the belt so tightly that Dick’s head is jerked clean off the ground. And, oh god, _where’s_ Batman!

The man keeps tugging, yanking the belt violently until Dick feels like his neck is being broken. The wet, smacking noises he makes as the man strangles him sound like a death-rattle, and Dick knows he’s going to die. This man is going to kill him.

He wonders if Batman will find his body.

The agony is beyond believing and Dick is falling into blessed oblivion when suddenly he can breathe again. He coughs and gasps, spittle running from the corners of his mouth, and it takes too long for him to suck in even one satisfying breath. He’s shaking violently.

“P-please…n-no more…” he croaks, before the belt is yanked tight again. Dick whimpers. He can’t take this, he _can’t!_ And yet, somehow, he is because this monster isn’t giving him any choice.

It goes on for what feels like forever. Whenever Dick is on the verge of passing out, the belt loosens and he’s allowed to breathe. But the man only gives him seconds to catch his breath before strangling him again. And each time Dick wonders if this will be when the man kills him.

The horror only stops when Dick is beyond struggling or fighting back, when he’s limp and exhausted on the floor.

“Ha! You won’t disobey me again, will you?” the man sneers. “Will you?” he repeats, shaking the belt around Dick’s neck threateningly.

Weak and trembling, Dick shakes his head. He feels broken.

The belt is removed and Dick is dragged across the floor before the man shoves him into the cage. The metal restraint is placed around his neck again. Dick cringes at the contact and the man laughs at his fear. 

Something sharp pricks the crook of his elbow, but Dick doesn’t even have the strength to twitch. 

Drugs, he realizes dimly, as blackness drags him out of this nightmare.

oOo

The third time Dick wakes, he’s still trapped in the nightmare. No, scratch that. You wake up from nightmares; this has to be hell.

Because Dick is starting to believe in hell.

He remains tucked in a ball within the tight constraints of the cage, too afraid to move. Too afraid that the man is out there somewhere, waiting for him to wake up so he can torture him all over again. Because Dick knows that’s what’s going to happen. That’s why he’s here – so this man can get off on strangling him. This man is a psychopath, like Joker, except worse. At least Batman knows the Joker; he can find him faster than some random lunatic. 

Dick listens hard, trying to discern if the man is there. But all he can hear is the sound of water dripping. There’s something vaguely ominous about the sound.

After several long minutes, Dick decides that the man isn’t here, so he sits up and stretches as much as the tiny cage will allow. He’s stiff from being confined and his limbs still feel heavy. He knows now that’s because of drugs.

His hands move slowly to his neck where the metal encircles it. His throat is tight and swollen, his skin gouged and raw. Whatever is around his neck only adds to the discomfort. Dick touches it tentatively. Definitely some sort of collar. Maybe he can get it off? His fingers fumble along the metal until they find a clasp. Shakily, he presses on the clasp and gives a sigh of relief as the collar pops open. That was easier than expected. 

His next task is to remove the layers of tape from his eyes because he won’t get out of this cage without his sight. Kind of hard to pick a lock when you can’t see. Finding something to pick the lock will be a problem, but Dick’s resourceful and he’s worked with less.

His fingers slide along the tape, looking for a place to peel it off, but he’s barely gotten started on his task when a roar makes him jump.

“ _WHAT DID I TELL YOU ABOUT THE TAPE?_ ”

The man is back. Fear takes hold of Dick and squeezes hard. His hands pat frantically along the base of the cage for the metal collar; maybe he can use it as a weapon.

“I told you I’d break your fucking fingers if you touched that tape!” the man rages at him.

There’s a rattle of keys coming closer and Dick gulps in panic, his hands still searching for the collar. His fingers close around it just as the key slides into the lock. Seizing the collar, he jerks back to a sitting position, breathing hard.

The cage door opens and Dick tenses, both hands clasped tightly around the heavy metal collar. 

But the man doesn’t make a move. Instead, Dick hears a sigh. “I thought you learned your lesson?”

Dick doesn’t answer, heart thumping hard while he waits.

“I’d heard you were smart,” the man continues, “but smart little boys learn their lessons and you don’t seem to have learned any. So, since you’re slow, I’m gonna give you one last chance. Put that down and come out of the cage, or I’ll repeat our lesson with the belt.”

Dick shakes his head. “You’re gonna strangle me anyway.” He’s taken aback by how much his voice doesn’t sound anything like his own: it’s all cracked and broken and raspy.

“Stubborn little prick, aren’t you?” the man comments. “Fine. Have it your way.”

Dick hears him shuffling at the front of the cage and swings the metal collar hard. It connects with something and there’s a cry of pain. Dick swings again, but is halted mid-swing. He guesses the man is holding the collar by the other end and tries desperately to tug it back.

“Little fucker,” the man growls thickly.

The metal collar is smashed back into Dick’s face. There’s an explosion of pain as his head snaps back, lights flashing behind his eyes. He can feel the collar being yanked from his hands.

“No,” he moans, because he knows the man is going to make him pay for this.

Dick tries to fight against the large hands that grab him, but his struggles are weak as the man pulls him out of the cage, dragging his knees along the floor. Blood dribbles from his nose and his breathing is panicked.

“I’m sorry,” Dick says quickly, disgusted at his own weakness but at the same time desperate to avoid the horror of before. “I won’t do it again, I _swear!_ ”

“Damn right you won’t,” the man growls, seizing the three middle fingers of Dick’s right hand and forcing them backwards until they snap. Dick wails in pain.

“You touch that tape again, and I’ll break every finger you have, understand?” the man snarls, shaking him viciously.

Breathing hard, Dick nods.

“You’d better!” The man seizes Dick’s wrists, yanking him forward so suddenly that Dick topples from his kneeling position. The man forces something around Dick’s hands before yanking it tight across his wrists and the familiar plastic of zip-ties bite painfully into his skin. 

“And those are going to stay on this time!” the man says, dragging Dick to his feet. 

Dick is trembling as the man hauls him forward. Blood is still trickling from his nose, pain radiating outwards in sharp, furious bursts. He wonders if it’s broken. His shattered fingers are literally convulsing; twitching and shaking from the agony coursing through them. 

The man stops suddenly and Dick feels something push against his lips and clang against his teeth. “Drink!” the man orders, as water rushes into Dick’s mouth and dribbles down his chin. He can taste blood from the nose bleed, and the combination of that and his swollen throat makes him choke. He’s spluttering when the man pulls the bottle away, but he still feels thirsty.

The man doesn’t speak as he half-carries, half-drags Dick across the room. Dick tries to get his legs under him so he can walk, so he can feel at least some semblance of control, but his body isn’t responding like it should.

They veer left and stop, and the man stands Dick upright. His heart sinks. They’re in the bathroom again, but the idea of using his shattered fingers is more than he can bear.

“Toilet’s right there, do your business,” the man commands, like Dick is a dog.

“I– I don’t have to go,” Dick whispers, voice thin and reedy. 

The man shakes him hard. “I’m not letting you piss yourself like some of the others! Fucking do it!”

Face burning in shame and humiliation, Dick fumbles awkwardly with the button of his pants. His broken fingers, shaking hands and bound wrists make the job harder than it should be.

“Oh, for chrissake!” exclaims the man irritably, and Dick wants to die when the man reaches around from behind and opens his pants. “Now hurry up!”

Dick does as he’s told, ignoring the pain in his fingers as he hurriedly tries to use the bathroom lest the man decides to do that for him too. Something hot burns his eyes and Dick closes them, afraid he might cry. He wants Batman to come save him so badly that it scares him.

Because what if Batman doesn’t come?

Dick finishes what the man wants him to do and despite the pain, forces his fingers to close his pants. This man already has enough power over him – Dick refuses to give him any more.

“Finally,” the man hisses and drags Dick back to the other room. 

Dick hears the man’s breathing pick up. Desperation and fear churn in his gut because he knows what that means. He knows what comes next. 

“No!” he croaks, and drives an elbow into the man’s side. There’s a slight ‘ooof’ and he pulls himself out of the man’s grip. But before Dick can do anything else, a fist smashes into his face and his head snaps backwards. Hands fling him violently to the floor.

“No?” says the man, as Dick rolls to his hands and knees, head reeling and his nose now pouring blood. “I’ll show you no!”

A booted foot is driven into his ribs, knocking Dick sideways. Then the man is on him, rolling and flattening him against the floor. Dick feels hands close around his neck and tries to pull the fingers away. The man responds by tightening his grip until Dick chokes. Loudly. Blood from his nose drips into his mouth, making him gurgle and gag. The fingers squeeze harder and Dick jerks his head, rolling it from side to side, desperate to break the hold. He claws viciously at the man’s hands, ignoring the pain it causes his broken fingers, then tries to tear at the man’s face…but he can’t get his bound hands around the man’s arms, and thumps against his torso instead. An image of Batman slices through the desperation and terror, making Dick sob.

 _Batman! Batman…where are you?_

“Time to start begging,” the man whispers in his ear, making Dick jerk his head in the opposite direction. Heart pounding and lungs heaving, Dick bends his legs and tries to dislodge the monster straddling him by pushing up from the floor, but it’s useless. He’s too big. 

“Did you hear me?” the man snaps, shaking Dick by the neck like he’s a rag doll. “Fucking BEG!”

Dick shakes his head because why should he when this guy just keeps strangling him anyway?

“No?” The man’s hands disappear and Dick sucks in air, promptly choking on the blood pooled in his mouth. “Let’s see if we can change your mind…”

The man gets off him and Dick rolls onto his side, coughing and wheezing as he spits out the blood. _Batman, please find me. Please, please_ …

He lashes out when he feels the man’s hands on him again, but a fist punches him in the face. Something clinks by his ear and Dick feels something slide around his neck. He literally goes cold with terror.

The belt.

“No,” Dick croaks. “Ple- ack!” His words are swallowed as the belt is pulled tight around his neck. 

The man pulls violently on the leather until Dick is gagging. He gives a choked scream as his fingers – broken included – claw frantically at the belt.

“Listen up, you little fucker,” the man growls, “from now on you’re going to do everything I tell you. You’re gonna beg when I say beg, you’re gonna whimper when I say whimper, and if I tell you to get on your knees, then you get on your fucking knees! Just. Like. _This_ ,” he finishes, loosening the belt and dragging Dick to his knees. Then he moves behind Dick and pulls the belt taut again.

Petrified and in agony, Dick whimpers and struggles, scrabbling to get to his feet. A booted foot to his back pushes him facedown onto the floor, before the man uses the belt to jerk him to his knees again.

“Most importantly,” the man continues, his voice low and terrifying in Dick’s ear, “there’s going to be no more of your shit. Or else we’ll spend hours and hours and hours having fun with this belt.” The belt yanks hard and Dick feels something give in his throat. “Do you understand?”

Dick nods frantically. The belt goes slack and Dick crumples to the floor, gasping for air and sobbing. He feels pathetic, weak. _Batman_ … his mind gibbers at him.

The belt is removed from his neck and the man wraps himself bodily around Dick’s crouched form, making Dick cringe into the floor. 

“Now that we’ve got that out of the way…” the man whispers, fingers crawling through Dick’s hair. His stomach churns from the stench of the man’s reeking breath. “You gonna beg nice and pretty for me, rich boy?”

Too terrified to be embarrassed by the tears rolling down his checks, Dick nods. He’ll do whatever the man wants to avoid the belt. It’s a torture like nothing he’s ever imagined.

“Good boy,” the man sneers, triumphantly, rolling Dick onto his back. 

And something in Dick dies a little as hands close around his throat once more.


	2. Chapter 2

“C’mon, c’mon,” Bruce mutters, scowling through the windshield at the stalled cars in front of him. The turn-off to the river is just a few hundred yards ahead and he needs to get down there. Why the hell isn’t traffic moving?

Then he sees the police officer diverting traffic away from the river exit and his heart lurches. Oh god, the news report was _true?_

Clutching the steering wheel tightly, Bruce banks a hard right and ignores the scraping and grinding from the underside of his car as he forces the Porsche down an incline cars were never supposed to travel. They can arrest him or give him a ticket or whatever the fuck they want later!

There’s a _thump_ as the car hits gravel, followed by the splattering of stone on metal when Bruce drives at speed along the riverbank towards a crowd of people gathered ahead. There are police cars parked there, lights still flashing, and Bruce catches a glimpse of yellow tape through the crowd. Cold fear slithers over him and his heart is practically in his throat as he brakes and jumps out of the car, not bothering to close the door. 

He runs towards the crowd and hears murmuring. He knows they recognized the car as it drove up. Several flashes of light go off somewhere to his right. Cameras. But they don’t matter, nothing matters now.

He pushes through the crowd without a word. Most of them move aside to let him pass. They heard the same news report that he did; they know why he’s here. When he reaches the tape, the eyes of the police officer on the other side widen in recognition, but Bruce ignores him and ducks under the tape.

The officer is in front of him at once, hands held up. “Mr. Wayne, I’m sorry but you can’t–”

“I need to get through!” Bruce snaps, struggling to contain his burgeoning fear and panic. He can see the ambulance parked several yards ahead; police officers, CSI’s and the fucking _coroner_ milling around it. 

“Mr. Wayne–”

“Just let me through,” Bruce insists, trying to get around the officer. “Please, you have to let me through!” He’s repeating himself, but he can’t help it. More eloquent words are beyond his capabilities right now. 

A second police officer joins them. “Is there a prob– Mr. Wayne!”

Bruce can see pity on their faces and it feels like someone has taken a sledgehammer to his gut. Pity can only mean that Dick is– He gulps and shakes his head, refusing to believe it.

“Officers, please, just let me through,” he says in a low voice, amazed he can speak past the lump in his throat. He can already feel grief’s cold fingers squeezing his heart. 

“Mr. Wayne,” the first officer addresses him softly, “if you would just step back behind the tape–”

“Jones, Dawson!” a voice calls from somewhere near the ambulance. “Let him through.”

It’s Jim Gordon. Bruce feels himself unravel at the grim, hard expression on the captain’s face. _Not Dick. Please don’t let it be Dick._

Heart hammering almost to the point of exploding, Bruce jogs towards the captain. He can barely breathe. This can’t be happening. 

“It’s not him,” says Gordon, the instant Bruce draws level with him. “It’s not Dick.”

The relief is so sharp it hurts. For a moment, Bruce can’t even speak. He stares dumbly at the officer before managing to choke out, “How…the news…Captain, are you sure?”

“I’m certain,” replies Gordon. “I’ve just seen the body myself and it’s not Dick.”

Bruce feels light-headed. It’s not him. It’s not Dick. “But the news…they _said_ it was Dick…”

“I don’t know who leaked that but I’m going to find out,” Gordon answers grimly. “The body is a boy around Dick’s age with dark hair, and the couple who found him…” The officer hesitates before continuing, “They thought it was Dick and called it in accordingly. Mr. Wayne, I’m so sorry for what you must have felt after hearing that news report.”

Still trying to breathe, Bruce shakes his head. It isn’t Dick. 

But his relief dissolves once the realization hits him: it isn’t Dick. So, where is he? It’s been three days. Three days with no ransom call, no word, nothing. “Captain Gordon, have you _anything_ new?”

Bruce can hear the slightly desperate tone in his voice but he can’t help it. Three days of nothing are starting to eat at the edges of his carefully constructed calm.

Looking regretful, Gordon shakes his head. “I’m sorry, Mr. Wayne, not yet.”

Not yet. It’s a gentle way of saying they have nothing. So, the police have nothing while Batman’s found nothing. Bruce sags, the crushing sensation of misery and hopelessness flooding him. He knows how bleak the statistics are after twenty-four hours in missing child cases, and it’s verging on seventy-two now. With every hour that scrapes by, Dick’s chances are dropping from poor to non-existent.

Bruce stares miserably at Captain Gordon. He just wants his son back.

“Mr. Wayne, I promise, the second we find anything, you’ll be the first to know.”

Gordon means well, but his words are empty to Bruce. If there was anything to find they would have found it by now. Unable to respond, he nods at the officer and walks away, because what’s the point in staying? Several cameras flash, but for once the vultures aren’t chasing him. It seems even they have their limits. Bruce trudges back to the car, unable to care about the eyes following him, watching his every move. 

He reaches the Porsche, its door still open, and hears his cell phone ringing insistently from where he left it on the passenger seat. Bruce wants to ignore it – he doesn’t have the energy to talk to anyone right now – but one glance at the display as he gets into the car tells him that it’s the manor.

Closing the door, he picks up the phone. “Alfred?”

“Master Bruce, is every– what did Captain Gordon say?”

There’s a quiver in his voice that Bruce doesn’t remember hearing before. He winces, because of course Alfred would have seen the same news report that he did. Probably even saw Bruce talking to Jim Gordon live on TV. “It’s not Dick,” he says hoarsely. 

He hears a strangled exhale from Alfred, and it’s several seconds before the butler speaks again. “How could the media make such a dreadful mistake?”

“The body is a boy around Dick’s age and the ones who found him…” Bruce swallows. He can’t bring himself to say the rest of it. Not when the horror of thinking Dick was dead is still so close.

“They presumed it was Master Dick,” Alfred finishes, the quiver in his voice again. 

Even though Alfred can’t see him, Bruce nods. He can feel himself crumbling, tumbling down a rabbit hole of despair. “Where is he, Alfred?” he whispers, despite knowing his old friend doesn’t have that answer. “Twelve-year-old boys don’t just disappear. Not like this, not unless–” Again, Bruce can’t bring himself to finish. He’s all too aware of the reasons children vanish without a trace.

Alfred tries to console him. “Sir, you will get him back. Batman will find him.”

But he doesn’t sound any more certain than Bruce feels.

oOo

Bruce is exhausted when he arrives at the police precinct the next morning. He’s been awake for four nights straight and he’s starting to feel it. Even Batman can’t operate indefinitely without sleep. But Bruce hasn’t really been able to close his eyes since Dick disappeared. Closing his eyes means seeing his worst nightmares in vivid, terrifying detail.

Walking into the main body of the precinct, Bruce can tell at once that something is up. The area is even busier than usual and there are three men in suits who Bruce _knows_ aren’t Gotham PD. They look FBI. 

Bruce pauses. What would the FBI be doing in Gotham? 

Captain Gordon is frowning at him from the far corner of the room, where he’s talking to one of the men in suits, and Bruce makes a beeline for them.

“Mr. Wayne, what are you doing here?” asks Gordon once Bruce reaches them. It’s obvious he doesn’t want Bruce here. 

The man beside him doesn’t speak, but Bruce can see an FBI identification card clipped to his pocket that reads _Agent Brian Michaels_. His agitation increases. Does the FBI presence have something to do with Dick?

“I wanted to see if you had anything new on Dick’s disappearance,” Bruce answers. 

“Mr. Wayne, like I told you yesterday, we’ll let you know the second we find anything.”

Gordon is only half-looking at him and Bruce can tell at once that something has changed. The officer is hiding something, probably something he thinks is for Bruce’s own good. He’s come to know Jim Gordon very well during his time as Batman. The problem is Bruce Wayne shouldn’t be able to recognize Captain Gordon’s tells. He tries another tactic. “I was thinking about the body of that boy you found. You said he was around Dick’s age and had dark hair – I’ve seen things like that on TV and isn’t stuff like that a sign of a connection between victims?” 

It hurts Bruce to think of Dick as a victim, but he needs information if he’s going to find him. There’s nothing but a photograph of the dead boy in the system: the police haven’t identified him and an autopsy hasn’t been performed yet. However, the boy looks enough like Dick to trigger every fear Bruce has – he knows damn well that preferential offenders have types. 

“We haven’t identified the boy yet,” Gordon explains patiently. “And we have no reason to believe that his death is connected to Dick’s disappearance.” 

Gordon is lying. Bruce can tell by the way he’s stiffening his face lest he give anything away. For a moment, Bruce feels his heart stop. The photograph of that boy showed horrific strangulation injuries, that he suffered before he died. 

Some of the horror he’s feeling must show on his face because the officer’s expression softens. “Mr. Wayne, I know this is hard for you, but please, trust us to do our job. We are doing everything we can to find Dick.”

“And what if you can’t? Dick’s been missing since Friday night. I should have gotten a ransom call by now so this can’t be a typical kidnapping. And it’s too much of a coincidence that the body of a boy like Dick has turned up while my son is missing!” He doesn’t care how loud he sounds, doesn’t care that saying all of this makes Bruce Wayne sound savvier than he should about crime. Finding Dick is the only thing he cares about.

Gordon sighs, looking tired. “We can’t make assumptions in case it causes us to overlook anything. We must be open to every possibility if we’re going to find Dick. And just because you haven’t received a ransom call doesn’t mean you won’t. You should go home, just in case.”

The officer would sound rational if it weren’t for the fact that Bruce _knows_ he should have gotten a ransom call by now. Kidnappers might sometimes leave a day or two between the kidnapping and the ransom call in order to frighten parents more, but this has been almost four days. No kidnapper is that patient.

“Alfred can transfer any calls to my cell,” he tells Gordon. “I can’t stay at home just _waiting_ any longer! I need to be doing something.” He tries not to think about the fact that Batman has been doing everything he can for the last four days because it still hasn’t been enough.

Gordon gives him a look of pity and puts a hand on his arm. “You would just be waiting here too. In fact, about the only constructive thing you could do right now is go home and get some rest. You look exhausted.”

Bruce tries not to growl with frustration. He knows the officer means well but he’s done being protected from whatever Gordon is trying to hide. “Why are the FBI here?” he demands abruptly, catching Gordon off-guard. “Does it have something to do with Dick’s disappearance?”

Gordon shoots the agent beside him a quick look. “They– the FBI are working some leads on a case.”

Bruce refuses to back down. “Does the case have anything to do with Dick’s disappearance?” 

“I’m afraid we’re not at liberty to share any details of an ongoing investigation with civilians, Mr. Wayne,” Agent Michaels interjects before Gordon can respond. 

“Not at _liberty?!_ ” Bruce barks, whirling on him in pure fury. “My son has been missing for almost four days! I have _every_ right to know what’s happening.”

The FBI agent has the grace to look abashed. “I’m sorry. I know this must be a difficult time for you. But our investigation is regarding an old case; your son isn’t our focus.”

It’s not an outright denial, and something about the careful construction of his wording suggests to Bruce there might be a connection. “Look,” he grits out, fighting to keep his temper under control, “I understand that you can’t reveal certain details about your investigation, but if Dick’s disappearance is in any way connected to–”

“We have no evidence to suggest that your son’s disappearance is in any way connected to our case,” Agent Michaels interrupts smoothly, evasively. “You should listen to Captain Gordon and go home, Mr. Wayne. Get some rest.”

Bruce glares at him in scornful disbelief. “You think I can rest while my twelve-year-old son is missing? You obviously don’t have kids, Agent.”

“You’re right, I don’t. But I’ve worked enough missing children cases to know that a parent running themselves ragged won’t help find their missing child.”

Bruce has no response to that. It’s hard to rebut the truth.

“Captain,” Agent Michaels turns to the officer, “may I use your office? I need to make a call.”

“Of course,” Gordon responds, “you know where it is.”

“Thank you.” The agent nods at them and walks away. 

Bruce watches him go and tastes bitterness in his mouth. “I know you’re hiding something from me,” he accuses Gordon quietly. “Jim, whatever it is, if it’s to do with Dick I deserve to know.”

The officer sighs. “Bruce, I know this is hard for you, but can you please trust that we are doing everything we can to find Dick?”

Bruce doesn’t answer. He knows they are. But it isn’t enough.

oOo

Batman slides soundlessly through the window into Captain Gordon’s office to find Jim Gordon, Detective Bullock, the three FBI agents and a woman with dark hair whom he’s never seen before standing around the captain’s desk. His arrival is shrouded by the night and the heated exchange taking place between Agent Michaels and the woman. When someone finally notices him, Batman isn’t surprised that it’s Gordon.

“Batman,” he greets him. “What are you doing here?”

“The dead boy from last night.” 

Gordon raises an eyebrow. “You’re here about that?”

“A child is dead. Another is missing.”

“And…you think there’s a connection?” Gordon asks carefully.

“It’s why the FBI are here.”

There’s a few seconds of silence. Two of the FBI agents are studying Batman with uncertain expressions, while Bullock is wearing his usual scowl. Agent Michaels and the woman just look intrigued.

Gordon sighs. “Alright, what do you know?”

“The FBI have been tracking a serial child murderer for the last three years across seven states. He spends days strangling his victims and the boy from last night appears to have been strangled repeatedly. He also fits the same profile as the other victims.” Batman doesn’t trust himself to repeat that profile – it matches Dick too closely.

“And how do you know all this, Batman?” Agent Michaels asks.

Because he spent the day raking through Agent Michaels’ career history until he found a case with similarities to the boy from last night. “It’s my job to know.”

“Right.” The agent studies him, clearly trying to read him, but Batman isn’t concerned. Even those who know him have trouble reading him. “How do you think you can help the FBI, Batman?”

“I’ve identified the dead boy,” Batman replies, handing him the file he’s brought.

Looking surprised, Agent Michaels flips through the file, before showing it to Gordon. “It certainly looks like the boy…”

“It is him,” says Gordon tiredly, glancing at the file. “I’ve been staring at this kid’s picture since yesterday; it’s definitely him.”

“Daniel Martin,” Agent Michaels muses. “Thirteen, been in and out of foster care for most of his life.” He looks at Batman again. “How did you identify him? He wasn’t in missing persons.”

“Daniel wasn’t in missing persons because he wasn’t reported as missing to the police.”

“Why didn’t his foster parents report him missing?” Gordon demands, outraged. “I got the autopsy an hour ago, and the kid’s been dead for over a week!”

“Logic dictates that any child not in missing persons is probably homeless or a runaway,” Batman replies, “and Daniel hasn’t been in foster care for almost four months. He ran away from his last home and they never reported it. Probably so they would continue to receive cheques from the state. Daniel’s been living on the streets.”

Agent Michaels narrows his eyes at Batman. “How do you know all this?” 

“One of my contacts.” 

“What contact?” When Batman doesn’t respond, the agent looks frustrated. “Batman, your contact could be our killer for all we know!”

“She’s a street kid, not much older than Daniel Martin. Hardly your killer, Agent.” 

“I want to talk to her,” Agent Michaels insists. “Who is she?”

“Agent Michaels, the only thing this girl knows about Daniel’s abduction is that that he vanished from the streets about two weeks ago. Let’s not waste time debating this and focus on finding the other missing boy before it’s too late.”

It’s tearing Batman apart to think of Dick in this monster’s hands, but there’s too much evidence to discount the probability. He needs to know everything the FBI knows: there’s nothing beyond the victim profiles in the FBI database.

Agent Michaels narrows his eyes. “You mean Richard Grayson. You think this man took him?”

“Don’t you?” Batman counters. 

“We haven’t ruled it out,” the agent admits.

“But you’re not sure?”

“No.” 

“Why not? He fits the victim profile.” It hurts to say that aloud and Batman must work to keep his voice neutral. 

“He fits the profile _physically_ ,” Agent Michaels says, “Dark hair, small build, even falls within the right age range…but the social demographic is way off. So far, most of this guy’s victims were street kids who were dead before anyone even missed them.”

“Most,” Batman responds, “but not all. Four of the last six victims have been from secure homes.”

“And each of them were from different states because this guy likes to keep a low profile,” Agent Michaels replies. “Richard Grayson isn’t what you’d call low profile – he’s all over the Gotham news for chrissake!”

“That doesn’t change the fact that he fits the profile perfectly,” the woman with dark hair speaks up.

“Abducting him would have been extremely high risk,” Agent Michaels argues. “More than anything this guy has done before.”

“True,” she concedes. “But he’s getting bolder; choosing and stalking his victims rather than relying on circumstance. And Richard is in the public eye so he would definitely have been on his radar.”

Agent Michaels exhales loudly. “Teresa, this guy usually chooses victims no one will know about until after their bodies turn up _and_ he waits months between kills! Daniel Martin’s only been dead a week.”

“Maybe he’s devolving?” one of the other FBI agents suggests.

The woman with dark hair –Teresa – shakes her head. “If he were devolving then he would never have been organized enough to abduct Richard from a crowded hotel. The success of Richard’s abduction suggests a lot of preplanning. I think this man researched Richard and planned his abduction thoroughly, even getting a job at the Hilton to ensure he would be there on the night of the charity ball.”

“You’ve said this already, but you still haven’t said _why_ he’d go to all that trouble for just one kid.” Agent Michaels looks irritable, and Batman guesses this is what they had been arguing about when he arrived. “He’s never gone to that trouble before.”

“Maybe not for the boys he snatched off the streets, but I’m certain he went to similar trouble with the children he abducted from secure homes,” Teresa responds.

“Richard isn’t a regular kid,” Agent Michaels points out, and Batman bites down on his impatience. They don’t have _time_ for this. Dick doesn’t have time. 

“Agent Michaels does have a point,” Gordon speaks up. “Kidnapping Dick was taking a huge risk, why do it?” 

“Because his fantasies are growing and once he fixates on a certain boy no one else will do,” Teresa explains. “That he’s gotten away with this until now has only boosted his confidence, enabling him to move on from abducting street kids to boys who’ll be missed. And he’s getting bolder with every kill because he’s spending longer with his victims.”

“How do you know this?” Batman demands brusquely. It enrages and sickens him to think of this man planning Dick’s abduction to enact his evil fantasies.

“I don’t. I’m merely making approximations as to his behaviour… I’m a forensic psychologist with the BAU,” she adds.

Batman purses his lips. A profiler. He doesn’t have a lot of patience with profiling – it’s been his experience that criminals and psychopaths aren’t nearly as predictable as TV shows suggest.

The woman smiles slightly. “Profiling isn’t as exact as television would have you believe, Batman, but it’s still useful in discerning motivation and predicting behaviour.”

Batman scowls. Not useful enough to find this man.

“Alright, Teresa,” Agent Michaels says, “let’s say this guy took Richard: why abduct him from a crowded hotel?” 

“Because it was probably the best access he was going to get. Bruce Wayne is one of the richest men in the world and Richard is his only child. A boy like that is going to have security in his everyday life, making a crowded public event filled with strangers the easiest place to lay hands on him.”

“We interviewed every single person at the Hilton on the night of Dick’s disappearance,” Gordon interjects. “No one could leave until we spoke to them and confirmed their alibis. And we followed up on everyone who left before Dick’s disappearance was noticed. We didn’t find anything.”

“I bet you questioned everyone thoroughly though,” she persists. “Probably more than once because you knew security was so tight that Richard’s abduction had to be an inside job.”

Gordon frowns at her. “Yes.”

“So why a hotel employee?” Agent Michaels continues. “It could just as easily have been a guest or security guard.”

“A security position requires a background check – something this guy probably couldn’t provide – and guest access would have been limited to public areas of the hotel.”

“But a hotel employee would have access to nearly every part of the hotel, making it easier to gain access to Dick and take him out of there,” says Gordon, understanding dawning on his face. “And a hotel employee would be guaranteed to be working for the charity ball because it’s one of the biggest social events of the year.”

The psychologist nods. “Exactly.”

“But how did he get Dick out of there?” Gordon asks. “Every hotel employee working that night was present and accounted for when we arrived.”

“I don’t know. That’s why I asked to see the security footage.” She gestures to the computer on a portable table in the corner of the office.

Gordon shakes his head. “It’s a waste of time. I already told you, we’ve been over that footage several times and didn’t find anything.”

“But you didn’t have this when you were looking,” she replies, picking up the leather bag at her feet. Opening it, she takes out a sheet of paper and hands it to Gordon.

The officer glances at it and frowns before looking back at the psychologist with narrowed eyes. “Is this a sketch of the guy?”

She nods and Gordon whirls on Agent Michaels. “Goddammit, man! Why didn’t you tell me about this sooner?!”

Batman restrains himself from reacting as well: they’ve had this information the whole time?!

Agent Michaels looks displeased. “Because it isn’t reliable. The eye-witness who gave us that description was an old woman with Alzheimer’s. She supposedly witnessed the abduction of his second victim, but she couldn’t even remember the colour of the car when we spoke to her. Besides, we’ve run that picture after every victim was discovered and never gotten a single lead.”

“Her dementia was in the early stages when she witnessed the abduction,” Teresa points out. “And she reported it to the police _before_ the boy’s body was found, so we know she definitely saw something. There’s a possibility her description of his more memorable features – like that scar on his cheek – was accurate.”

“Scar?” Bullock interjects suddenly. “Lemme see that.” He takes the sketch from Gordon and studies it before looking up. “I talked to a guy with a scar like this.” 

“You did?” Agent Michaels says incredulously, while Batman’s whole attention zeros in on the detective.

“Yeah. Guy’s a janitor. Don’t look anything like this picture, but the scar’s almost the same.”

“Where did you talk to him? _When_ did you talk to him?” Gordon demands.

Bullock’s brow furrows. “At the hotel. He was one of the first people we talked to ‘cause he was one of the last to see the kid.”

“If he was still there when you arrived, how could he have taken Richard?” Agent Michaels asks.

“Maybe he left with the kid and then came back to hide his tracks?” another agent suggests. “He would have had time: the last video footage of the kid was taken twenty minutes before he was reported missing by Wayne, and it was at least another fifteen before the police arrived and started corralling everyone.”

Bullock shakes his head. “He didn’t leave. He’s nearly always on camera from the last shot of the kid ‘til we got there.”

“Nearly always?” Gordon repeats. “What about the times he isn’t on camera?”

“Fifteen-minute break with another janitor and a waitress. An’ he put some garbage in the dumpster off-camera – that took ‘bout a minute. Not enough time to stash the kid anywhere.”

“I want to see that clip of him putting out the garbage,” says Batman, a horrible suspicion sprouting in his mind.

“You don’t tell me what to do, bat-freak, y’hear?” Bullock growls.

“Just play the footage, Bullock,” orders Gordon. 

Shooting a dirty look at Batman, Detective Bullock heaves his considerable bulk over to the computer in the corner and sets up the footage. Within minutes, they’re all watching a clip of an overweight man in a janitor’s uniform pushing a cart of cleaning supplies along a service hallway, a garbage bag attached to the front. Batman’s stomach churns with revulsion: the bag is bulging heavily at the bottom.

There’s silence as they watch the man stop beside an exit door and remove the bag. Tellingly, he doesn’t tie up the bag and it takes exactly seventy-three seconds for him to push through the door and presumably put the bag in a dumpster, before re-entering the hotel. 

“Oh, my god,” Teresa breathes, the horror on her face telling Batman that she shares his suspicions. “Detective Bullock, can you trace his movements back from that shot to the last shot of Richard on camera?”

“S’already been done,” the detective answers, hitting a few buttons on the keyboard. “This guy was one of the last people to see the kid so we had IT piece together all the footage of him after the kid disappeared. Look.”

Bullock points at the screen and Dick comes into view. Batman clenches his hands into tight fists beneath his cape. He’s watched this footage at least a hundred times over the last four days and can predict to the exact second everything that happens: Dick greeting the Vreelands as they walk past, standing aside to let the waiter with the food cart pass, picking up Mrs. Ellison’s purse as the elderly woman drops it coming out of the ladies’ room, then smiling politely when she pats him on the head, before disappearing off-camera as he heads towards the men’s room. 

“That’s the last shot we have of the kid,” Bullock tells Teresa. “There’s no camera outside that men’s room.” He forwards the footage. “Janitor comes from the same direction ‘bout four minutes later.”

They watch as the big man in overalls pushes the cart onscreen and now that he’s looking for it, Batman’s eyes go straight to the half-full garbage bag, bulging at the bottom.

Several clips, obviously edited together with timestamps of no more than ten seconds between them, show the janitor continue down the corridor and enter the men’s restroom in the hotel lobby. Exactly six minutes later, he exits the restroom before moving around the lobby; sweeping up the floor, and emptying trash cans and ashtrays. It takes four minutes and twenty-eight seconds to perform those jobs: Batman knows because he’s timed every second of the last people to see Dick at the charity ball. The janitor then heads for the elevators and gets in, the footage cutting to a clip of him in the elevator picking his nose. 

It would look disgustingly normal if Batman didn’t now know it for what it is; a diversion from the fact that the janitor is hyperaware of the camera on him. 

They continue to watch in silence as the janitor gets off the elevator, and several more edited clips with timestamps of less than twenty seconds between them depict him pushing the cart along the restaurant corridor. He enters another restroom and exits six minutes and thirty-five seconds later. 

But the trash bag is still only as full as it was when the janitor first came onscreen. Batman grinds his teeth. The bastard was clever enough not to empty any garbage from the restrooms into the bag.

“Jesus Christ!” Gordon hisses as they watch the man push the cart further down the corridor. “Son-of-a-bitch put Dick in the trash bag!”

“And then paraded that cart around on camera like he had nothing to hide,” concludes Agent Michaels grimly, his eyes on the screen. “Clever. Very clever. No wonder he didn’t tie the bag before taking it outside – he didn’t want the kid to suffocate.”

Scowling furiously, Bullock pauses the footage. “Scumbag heads down to the basement to put out the bag next, then goes on break. He was washin’ the kitchen floors with another guy when we showed up. Told us straight out he’d seen the kid in the men’s room, and that he was still in there when he left. After seeing the footage, we ruled him out as a suspect.”

Batman feels sick. All this time the kidnapper was right in front of them and no one had seen it. The man had pulled a risky, clever ruse that had fooled all of them. Even him. 

“He must have drugged Dick before putting him in the trash,” Gordon says, his expression angry. “But he couldn’t have known he’d lay hands on Dick that way, odds weren’t high that he would end up in a restroom at the same time as Dick. _And_ he couldn’t guarantee that they’d be alone.”

“He was taking a chance,” Teresa muses slowly, her gaze faraway, clearly thinking. “He planned meticulously what he would do if he found himself alone in a restroom at the same time as Richard, but he knew it wasn’t guaranteed… I think that’s why he abducted Daniel only the week before, to take the edge off his fantasy. That way he wouldn’t be tempted to take any unnecessary risks if he didn’t manage to lay hands on Richard.”

Gordon blinks. “That makes it sound like he came to Gotham with the intention of abducting Dick.”

“I’m beginning to think he did. Like I said, Richard is in the public eye and would have been on this man’s radar. He probably thought about abducting him for some time before deciding to do it.”

“Is that why he’s been killing boys with dark hair?” Agent Michaels asks. “Because the Grayson kid was who he wanted all along?”

Teresa shakes her head. “No. A fantasy as specific as this took root at an early age. Richard probably just caught this man’s eye and slowly became part of his fantasies until it reached the point where fantasy was no longer enough and he needed to physically possess the boy to satisfy his urges.”

Gordon’s eyes narrow. “You’re not talking…?”

“Nothing sexual,” she clarifies, and Batman feels an absurd surge of relief. “At least, not in the typical sense, though there is a sexual component to his actions.”

“What do you mean?” asks Batman quickly, heart thudding hard in his chest.

“This man is obsessed with having complete control over a human life, and strangulation is the ultimate form of control. He literally has the power to give or take his victim’s next breath with his bare hands, and it makes him feel like a god. He gets off on it.”

“He gets _off_ on it?!” Gordon repeats, looking sickened.

“He’s a sexual sadist. He feeds off the pain and fear of his victims, and the power he has over them.”

Bullock scowls. “No offence, doc, but any sadist I’ve ever met has been more interested in usin’ sharp, pointy things on their victims.”

She sighs. “It’s not about the blood, it’s about the pain. Many people disregard strangulation because it lacks the obvious blood and gore of other forms of torture, but they underestimate just how brutal and terrifying it is for the victim. Believe me, Detective Bullock, those boys suffered terribly before they died.”

Something cold writhes in Batman’s gut. How much has his child suffered? “Do you have a name and address for that janitor, Detective?” he addresses Bullock.

Bullock’s scowl deepens. “Why don’t you just leave this to the cops, huh, bat-freak?”

“Bullock,” Gordon says wearily, “just give us the name and address.”

“We didn’t get an address once we ruled him out as a suspect,” the detective admits sullenly. “Creep’s name is Freddie Arlow.”

“Dammit!” Gordon swears, and Batman feels his heart sink. “Bullock, see if there’s anything for Arlow in the system. If not, take Montoya and get down to the hotel. It’s after two so there probably isn’t a whole lot of staff on, but you beat down doors until you get that address! And check beyond that door where he dumped the trash bag, just in case he left anything behind.”

“Sure thing, Cap’.” 

The detective leaves and Gordon turns to Teresa. “I really wish you’d gotten here earlier, Doctor McCall, we would have known about this sooner.”

He sends Agent Michaels a nasty glance and the agent looks annoyed. “We had no reason to believe that sketch was a reliable lead, Captain. It’s only wasted valuable time and manpower before.”

“Besides, I was closing a case in Washington and this was the earliest I could fly to Gotham,” Teresa adds.

Gordon pinches the bridge of his nose. “If I run this guy’s picture on the news, will he kill Dick?”

“Yes.”

“How do we know the kid’s still alive?” Agent Michaels asks. “It’s been four days – most of his victims died within that time.”

“Not the last three,” Teresa replies. “They all survived for nearly a week because he’s gotten better at gauging how far he can push the strangulation before he kills them. Not to mention the effort it took to abduct Richard – he’s going to want to make it last.”

Batman’s insides shrivel. The idea of what Dick might be suffering, right at this minute, is more than he can bear. He needs to find Dick. _Now_.

He leaves without acknowledging Gordon or the FBI agents; he has enough information to find this bastard.

But as he swings into the night, his stomach becomes a crawling, twisting mess. This man has had Dick for four days, and that kind of brutal, sustained abuse leaves a mark on more than just the body. Even if Batman finds Dick alive, there’s no guarantee he’ll really get him back.

And that frightens him almost as much as not finding Dick at all.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who commented and left kudos. I really appreciate it. :)

The hotel manager isn’t happy to see them; Jim can tell by the way he’s pursing his lips. He supposes he can’t blame him – it’s not good for business when a child disappears from your hotel, especially one as high profile as Dick Grayson.

“Captain Gordon, how nice to see you again,” the manager greets him, his agitated demeanour contradicting his words. Twitchy eyes dart between them and the lobby, clearly scanning for any hotel guests who might see the police.

And okay, that annoys Jim because it’s the middle of the night. Who the hell is going to see them at this hour?!

But he forces himself to swallow his disgust. They can’t afford to alienate him when they need his cooperation. Plastering a smile on his face, he holds out his hand. “Thanks for coming in at this hour, Mr. Walsh. We really appreciate it.”

“Of course, anything to help the police,” the manager simpers, shaking his hand. “Now, Mr. Poteet mentioned that you need Freddie Arlow’s address?”

“Yes, we do.” Jim shoots a dirty look at the night porter standing behind the reception desk. The man had refused to cooperate with Bullock and Montoya, insisting that he couldn’t call the hotel manager in the middle of the night for anything short of an emergency. It had finally taken the appearance of the police captain to drill it into his thick skull that this _is_ an emergency.

The hotel manager catches Jim’s glance. “Please don’t be angry with Mr. Poteet, Captain. He was only doing his job.”

Jim doesn’t doubt that for a second. In fact, he strongly suspects every member of staff has been coached on how to handle Dick’s abduction from the hotel. “He said the staff files were in your office and that you have the only key.” 

“That’s correct,” the manager answers, the smooth English voice carrying an edge to it. “But, Captain, I’m rather uncomfortable breaching an employee’s personnel records. May I ask why you need Mr. Arlow’s address?”

“He’s a person of interest in our investigation and Mr. Poteet informed us that he no longer works here.” Remove Arlow’s connection to the hotel and maybe they can move this along faster. 

But it has the opposite effect as the manager’s eyes widen. “Mr. Arlow gave his notice a full two weeks before the charity ball! If a member of staff had quit so suddenly after Richard’s abduction, I assure you, Captain, I would have notified you at once! I–”

“Of course you would have,” Jim soothes. “This has nothing to do with the hotel. We just really need to speak with Mr. Arlow.” The manager’s concern for the hotel’s reputation over the missing child is sickening Jim, but he can’t let it show in case the manager refuses to give them the address without a warrant. At this time of night, a warrant would take too long and Dick doesn’t have that kind of time.

Looking distinctly unhappy, the manager nods. “Very well. Please wait here and I’ll get the address.”

The manager disappears down a corridor and Bullock nudges Jim. “You get the impression he don’t want us here?” 

“He’s trying to protect the hotel. If it gets out that a member of staff abducted Dick, it will seriously hurt the hotel’s reputation.”

“Who cares?” says Bullock dismissively, chewing on a toothpick. “Findin’ the kid’s more important than some ratty hotel’s rep.” 

His detective is clearly pissed with the hotel manager’s attitude because the Hilton is Gotham’s most high-end hotel – ratty is definitely not a word that can be associated with it. 

“You’re not wrong, Bullock, but we need this guy on our side if the address doesn’t pan out.”

“You mean we need him nice an’ co-operative in case we gotta question his staff again.”

Jim nods. “They might know something about Arlow that will lead us to him.”

The detective scowls. “Let’s hope that address pans out ‘cause I don’t think we’re gonna get much help from anyone here.” 

He jerks a thumb meaningfully towards the night porter watching them cautiously, and Jim purses his lips. So Bullock suspects the staff have been coached as well. Jim hopes that won’t become a problem. He doesn’t think he’ll be able to keep his temper if anyone starts stonewalling in order to protect the hotel.

They wait in silence for the hotel manager to return, Jim mulling over the situation in his head. He hasn’t been able to get the dead boy – Daniel Martin – out of his mind since reading the coroner’s report detailing the slow, painful death the child suffered. Despite all his years on the force in a city like Gotham, Jim has never witnessed this kind of brutality and violence towards children. Oh, he’s seen some horrific cases of abuse that left him unable to sleep for weeks, but this…this is a sadistic, prolonged form of torture on a level that he’s never encountered before. 

Jim is finding it difficult to reconcile the brutality this man is inflicting on children with a boy he knows, a boy he’s _fond_ of. Not to mention he has no idea how to explain this to his daughter – something he can’t exactly avoid. Barbara’s hardly slept since her friend disappeared, and has been calling Jim incessantly for updates. But how’s he supposed to explain the actions of a sick, depraved sadist when he can’t get his own head around them? He’s absolutely dreading telling Bruce Wayne. 

He sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. When the FBI had shown up and told him about the red flag Daniel Martin’s body had sent up in their system, Jim had been chilled to realize that, except for his background, Dick Grayson fit the victim profile perfectly. Jim had clung to the hope that the fact Dick wasn’t a street kid meant he couldn’t be one of this man’s victims. It was why he hadn’t told Bruce when he’d shown up at the station: why scare a stressed, frightened father even more when they had no proof?

Of course, now that they know he has Dick…

“Captain.” Bullock nudges him, and Jim looks up to see the hotel manager returning with a piece of paper between his fingers.

“Mr. Arlow’s address, Captain,” says Mr. Walsh, proffering the paper. 

Jim takes one look at it and feels his heart sink. He knows that area very well and he’s almost certain there’s no residential housing on that street. 

Bullock, peering over his shoulder at the address, snorts. “That’s a fake, Captain. Ain’t been any apartments on that street for almost fifteen years.”

The manager bristles at once. “Are you insinuating something, Detective? Because I assure you, that is the address Mr. Arlow gave me.”

“Hold your horses, Jeeves,” Bullock retorts. “No one’s accusin’ ya of anything.”

“Well, it certainly sounds like–”

“Detective Bullock is right,” Jim cuts across the manager smoothly. “We’re not accusing you of anything. Arlow probably gave a fake address. But, Detective,” he turns to the man and pointedly hands him the slip of paper, “we still need to check out the address. Take Montoya with you.”

The detective takes the hint. “Sure thing, Cap.”

As Bullock leaves, Jim turns back to the hotel manager. “Mr. Walsh, did Arlow ever mention any particular hangouts he visited?”

“I’m afraid I wasn’t acquainted with Mr. Arlow beyond the odd, casual interaction. He was hired by and reported to Ms. Landon, our head of housekeeping. And she’s currently on vacation in Florida for her sister’s wedding.”

“Damn.” Jim glances at his watch. “It’s after four now. What time do the rest of the staff come on duty?”

“The breakfast chefs start at six and the first wait staff start at six-thirty. Why?”

“We need to talk to them as they come in, see if they know anything about Arlow or his hangouts.”

The hotel manager actually turns pale. “Captain, is that really necessary? Couldn’t they come and speak with you at the station after work instead?”

Jim has to work really hard to restrain himself from decking the asshole.

oOo

It’s sometime past noon when Jim and Bullock traipse into a greasy spoon café in the meat-packing district. Both officers are discouraged from hours of fruitless investigation.

After interviewing the Hilton staff and identifying some of Arlow’s hangouts, Jim dispatched units to those places, and several more to the surrounding areas. When that was unsuccessful, he extended the search to a ten-block radius for each one. The large area called for all-hands-on-deck, with several officers coming in on their days off to aid in the search for Arlow. 

Jim has joined them, pounding the streets in a way he hasn’t done since his beat cop days. His involvement has surprised several of his officers, but he refuses to let that stop him. Dick is running out of time and the only way they’re going to find him is the old-fashioned way. Running Arlow’s picture on the news isn’t an option, not after Teresa McCall’s warning that Arlow would kill Dick if they did.

But hours of visiting businesses and apartment blocks to show Arlow’s picture have turned up nothing and Jim is starting to lose hope. If they don’t find him by tonight, Jim might be forced to choose between Dick’s life and letting a serial child murder get away. This monster only ever takes two victims per area, and no one him in the wind again to brutally destroy more children. 

Jim is kind of surprised that the FBI agents haven’t already shown Arlow’s picture to the public, but he guesses the veritable shitstorm that would come down on their heads if they got Bruce Wayne’s only child killed is restraining them for now. Jim knows there’s a certain unfairness to that – one child’s life shouldn’t be worth more than any other – but he can’t help feeling relief that Bruce’s name is buying Dick more time. And not just for the sake of Barbara, who was in tears when she rang Jim an hour ago, but for Bruce as well. This is a man who’s given more to this city than anyone, despite it once taking everything from him. As for Dick… 

Jim’s stomach twists. It’s making him ill to think of what the boy might be suffering right at this minute. He literally can’t bear the thought of the cheerful, talkative child being tortured in such a manner.

“What can I get you boys?” drawls the waitress when they reach the counter. She looks like a walking cliché, chewing a wad of gum in a pink, diner-style uniform and sporting some impressive beehive hair.

“We’re with the police department,” says Jim, withdrawing his badge and the image of Arlow’s face taken from the security footage. “We’re looking for this man. Have you ever seen him before?”

The waitress glances at the picture with disinterest. “Nope.”

“Would you mind looking a little closer?” Jim asks, despair starting to bubble because this café is the last location on their list, and he’s fairly certain the other units are reaching the end of their lists as well. They’re running out of options and time.

The waitress smacks her gum and looks again before shrugging. “No. Sorry. But I can ask Johnny and Marla if you want?”

“Johnny and Marla?”

“They work here.”

“Please,” Jim replies.

Taking Arlow’s picture, she disappears into the kitchen at the back. Jim rubs his eyes and turns to Bullock, who’s checking his phone. “Any word from the other units?”

The detective shakes his head. “If nobody finds anything, you gonna extend the search again?”

“I don’t know. It may not be an option.”

“You mean with the FBI an’ all?”

Jim sighs and nods, pinching the bridge of his nose wearily.

“Damn.” Scowling, Bullock scratches his head. “Still can’t believe the kid was in the freakin’ trash the whole time. We shudda brought in the scent dogs.”

“They would have been useless. You know we had nothing with Dick’s scent for them to track.” 

It’s a knowledge that makes Jim burn with helpless frustration, knowing that if only they’d had something with Dick’s scent… But the boy had gone straight from car to venue, and so hadn’t brought a coat. Nor had there been any dirty laundry at the manor because the old butler runs such a tight ship.

Jim guesses that last one is eating at both Bruce and Alfred. It’ll probably haunt them forever once they find out Dick was on the premises the whole time. Jim suspects that if Bruce gets Dick back, he’ll be keeping a large stock of Dick’s dirty clothes for the future…just in case. Heck, after Dick’s cell was found dumped in the restroom trash, Jim wouldn’t be surprised if he has some kind of personal LoJack installed in the boy! Bruce Wayne is more paranoid and security conscious than Gotham gives him credit for. It’s the reason he spotted the boy’s disappearance from the charity ball so quickly. 

The waitress returns from the kitchen and slides the picture back across the counter, saying, “Johnny’s never seen him before.”

“And Marla?” Jim asks, trying to ignore the sinking feeling in his gut.

“Outside having a– there she is. Hey, Marla!”

They turn and see an overweight woman with shocking red hair hanging up her coat. Marla looks to be in her fifties and has the grizzled, hard look of someone who’s lived in Gotham her whole life.

“What?” she snaps, coming towards them in a waft of stale sweat and cigarette smoke. Jim makes a mental note to never eat here.

The other waitress gestures to Jim and Bullock. “These cops are lookin’ for someone.”

“Ain’t we all?” Marla snipes.

The other waitress shrugs, then grabs a coffee pot and moves to the other side of the counter, where a man in grubby clothes is waving at her for a refill. 

“So,” Marla eyes Jim and Bullock with dislike, “who’re you lookin’ for?”

“This man,” Jim says, handing her his picture. “Have you ever seen him in here?”

Marla squints at the picture, frowning. “Mebbe. What he do?”

“Kidnapped a kid,” Bullock replies.

Her eyes narrow. “He some kinda kiddie-fiddler?”

“No, but he has hurt a lot of children,” Jim answers quietly. “So if you could help in any way…”

Her antagonistic attitude vanishes, and after a minute of staring at the picture she looks up. “Yeah, he’s been here. But I ain’t seen him for ‘bout a week – mebbe longer."

“What can you tell us about him?” demands Jim urgently, feeling a small rush of hope. 

“He came in coupla times over the last two months. Deadbeat had a bad attitude – talked to us like dogs, never tipped…stank somethin’ awful as well. I ain’t never smelled breath that bad–”

“Do you know where we might find him?” Jim cuts in. 

“No… But Charlie swears he saw him go in the old water-treatment place ‘bout two-weeks ago.”

“Who’s Charlie?” asks Jim, heart beating faster. The old water-treatment plant isn’t far from here and hasn’t been operational since the seventies. Gotham needed a bigger, more efficient system as the city expanded and the old building was shut down, then condemned, years ago. 

“One a’ the cooks. He’s off today, but he was on the last night that bum was in here…guy looked like he’d been wrestlin’ with wildcats, hands all scratched to hell. That’s how we started talkin’ bout him an’ it’s when Charlie mentioned seein’ him down the water-treatment place.”

Jim glances at Bullock. “Get an officer down here now. One not in uniform. I want them to stay here in case this guy comes back. And send a unit to the plant as well – we might need back up. Marla…” he turns back to the waitress, “if this guy comes in before my officer arrives, you think you can keep him here?” 

“I’ll hit him over the head if I needa. I don’t like creeps who hurt kids.”

Jim ignores her threat of physical violence. He knows he shouldn’t, but it’s hard not to agree in this instance. “Thank you, Marla. Bullock,” he gestures to the detective who’s now on the phone with the station, and jerks his head towards the door.

They hurry out of the café and Jim feels a raw, nervous excitement. This is the biggest lead they’ve had since Dick disappeared, and he prays it won’t result in a dead end.

Or worse, a dead body.

oOo

The other unit hasn’t arrived by the time they pull up outside the dilapidated water-treatment plant and Jim decides not to wait, even though it’s been a long time since he was this active in the field – being captain confines him mostly to the station and politics. But he won’t let that stop him when a child’s life is on the line.

“You go ‘round back,” he tells Bullock. “I’ll go in the front.”

They get out of the car. Jim’s not a praying man, but he prays they’ll find Dick. He knows it’s wrong, but if he has the choice between finding this guy and finding Dick, he wants to find Dick. It would be easier to let a child murderer escape than to have to break the news to Bruce and Barbara that Dick is dead. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Bullock disappear around the side of the building. It occurs to him that maybe he should have taken a second to warn his detective that if he needs to shoot, try not to kill. Bullock is a good cop but he doesn’t always do things by the book, and cases involving kids tend to push his buttons the wrong way.

Jim reaches the front door, which bears the signs of multiple forced entries. It makes it easy for him to force his own silent entry, taking out his gun as he enters the building. The place reeks of mould and damp, even out here in the reception area. He keeps his gun ready and senses alert as he prowls towards the door that leads into the main body of the plant: a large, galvanized monstrosity that’s half hanging off its hinges. He ducks under it and moves into the huge open area beyond. 

He takes a moment to survey the facility. The massive iron tanks and large, high windows mean it’s a strange mixture of light and dark. Some kind of green slime glistens on parts of the floor, while the sound of dripping water is loud and echoing, adding to the eerie air of the place. He’s just debating what direction to take when he hears a faint noise that isn’t dripping water. Listening hard, he discerns that it’s coming from his left, and moves cautiously in that direction. 

Careful to stay out of the strips of sunlight streaming through the windows, Jim slinks in and out between the water filtration tanks. Gradually the noise becomes clearer, morphing into a male voice. 

“-ing do it.”

Several wet, choking gasps echo.

“Start begging, you little shit! Or do you want me to get the belt again?”

There’s a barely audible whimper and a red rage sweeps over Jim. He hurtles out from behind the tanks to find a large man straddling the small body of a child, his hands around the boy’s neck. The man’s head jerks up and Jim recognizes Freddie Arlow.

“POLICE! HANDS IN THE AIR!” he screams, barely able to contain his fury. 

Looking shocked, the man complies. Beneath him, the small figure coughs and chokes, desperately sucking in broken gasps of air.

“Get off that boy! Get off him _right now!_ ” Jim literally snarls, approaching slowly. 

The man doesn’t respond.

“MOVE!” Jim roars. He’s trembling with rage, fingers itching to pull the trigger. He’d been worried about Bullock…turns out he should have worried about himself. It’s taking everything he has not to shoot this bastard.

The man finally stands up, allowing the child to curl onto his side, still choking and gasping and trying to catch his breath. The boy is perpendicular to him so Jim can’t tell if it’s Dick, and he refrains from checking until he has this monster subdued.

“Take five steps to your left, then turn and face the wall behind you,” Jim barks, keeping his gun on the man while he obeys. “Now, get on your knees and lace your fingers behind your head.”

The man stumbles awkwardly to his knees. He’s just lacing his fingers behind his head when Bullock’s voice calls, “Captain?”

“Over here,” Jim manages to get out, still struggling not to shoot as the boy’s wet, miserable gasps tear through him.

The detective approaches from behind. “I could hear ya’ yellin’.”

Jim ignores the comment. “Cuff him and take him to the car. Then call an ambulance.”

“Sure thing, Cap.”

 _Goddammed fucking bastard!_ Jim seethes, keeping his gun on Arlow while Bullock none-too-gently cuffs him. The police captain has never before experienced rage like this – it’s an actual physical sensation that he’s struggling to contain, much like the urge to be sick.

Bullock closes the second cuff with a brusque “On yer feet, creep!”, allowing Jim to holster his gun and dash over to the boy.

He drops to his knees beside the trembling child and feels a brief flash of relief when he recognizes Dick, before horror sets in at the state of the boy. He’s absolutely filthy – his skin, hair and clothes littered with blood, dirt and green slime. Bruises are visible on his torso through his torn shirt, and his neck is a mangled mess of bruised, broken, and welted flesh.

“Jesus,” Jim whispers, momentarily frozen. Even the body of Daniel Martin hadn’t prepared him for the reality of a live victim, especially not one that he knows. 

He does his best to shake off the shock and addresses the still-coughing child. “Dick, it’s Captain Gordon.” He reaches to unwrap the layers of tape around his eyes and is taken aback when the boy whimpers, flinching away from him.

Jim immediately removes his hand. “I’m not going to hurt you, Dick. Shhhhh, it’s alright…”

Except it’s not alright and Jim wants to murder the son-of-a-bitch who’s done this. 

“It’s okay, Dick,” he continues soothingly in a slightly louder voice. “You’re safe now. We’re going to get you back to Bruce, okay?”

At the mention of his guardian’s name, Dick says something that Jim thinks might be Bruce’s name, but his voice is so low it’s hard to tell. 

“That’s right, Dick – Bruce. Now, let’s get this tape off you.”

Dick doesn’t respond, but he stops cringing and Jim takes it as a sign that he’s understood. He reaches for the tape again, and feels relief when the boy doesn’t flinch. Very, very carefully, he starts to peel the tape off. Neck injuries aside, Dick’s face is swollen and heavily bruised, and Jim is concerned there might be some form of head trauma.

While he works, Jim notices that although Dick is no longer gasping for air, his breathing sounds strained and there’s an awful rattle to his lungs. He’s also ice cold to the touch. Jim hopes the ambulance gets here soon because if it doesn’t, he’s going to load Dick up in his cruiser and drive him to the hospital himself.

After several minutes, he peels off the last of the sticky layers. Dick immediately squeezes his eyes shut and throws his hands over them. Jim has to bite back a growl of fury: three fingers on the right hand are clearly broken, and the zip-ties around his wrists are partially embedded in the flesh, leaving it weeping and bloody.

Jim really fucking wishes Gotham had the death penalty. Bastards who brutalize and torture children don’t deserve the mercy of justice.

His own hands are shaking as he starts loosening the ties, wincing at the pained little noises Dick makes as Jim literally peels the hard plastic out from his skin. He has a horrible feeling that he’s going to have nightmares about this. He can only imagine the nightmares the boy is going to have.

“Captain,” Bullock’s voice sounds and he whips around.

“Bullock! What are you doing! Arlow–”

“Stenson an’ Maddock are outside,” the detective interrupts. “They’re gonna take the creep in.”

“What about the ambulance?”

“There was one a coupla blocks out. Should be here any min– aww, hell!” he exclaims, catching sight of Dick. The boy flinches at his loud tone.

“Easy, Bullock,” Jim cautions. Dick is traumatized all to hell and he doesn’t want to spook him.

“Sorry, Cap,” says the detective in a much softer voice. “What can I do?”

“See if there’s a blanket in the car,” Jim answers, still working on getting those damn zip-ties off.

The detective doesn’t leave. Instead, he stuns Jim by shrugging off his coat and laying it over the shaking child. “What?” says Bullock gruffly at his expression. “Kid’s cold, I’m not.”

“Thank you, Bullock,” says Jim, finally working the last of the hard plastic out from Dick’s skin and slowly easing the zip-ties off. “Dick?” he says, taking the boy’s hands and gently guiding them down from his eyes to tuck them beneath Bullock’s coat. Christ, he’s freezing.

Dick’s eyes are still closed, but the violent shaking and panicked breathing suggest he’s conscious. However, he’s not really acknowledging Jim and that concerns him. “Dick?” he tries again, carefully squeezing the boy’s left hand. It finally prompts a response and he opens his eyes. 

Horror hits him so hard Jim thinks he might be sick – the whites of Dick’s eyes are red. He’s been strangled so violently the blood vessels in his eyes have burst. 

The ball of disgust, fury and horror raging in his throat nearly chokes him and Jim swallows hard. Behind him, he can hear Bullock swearing under his breath.

Dick’s forehead creases in recognition and he mouths something that looks like ‘Captain Gordon?’

Jim hides a wince at his non-existent voice. “That’s right, Dick, I’ve got you. You’re safe now.”

“Wanna go…home…” he mouths, parched lips sticking together.

“We need to take you to the hospital first,” Jim reminds him gently. “But I’ll call Bruce and he’ll meet you there, okay?”

Dick doesn’t respond and tears slide down his cheeks. Jim’s heart aches for the child because fuck! How’s he supposed to get over _this?_

“Cap, paramedics are here,” Bullock’s voice announces, and Jim twists to see a man and woman approaching.

He turns back to the boy. “Dick, the paramedics are here. I’ve got to step back so they can treat you, but I’ll ride with you to the hospital, okay?”

Again Dick doesn’t respond. But as Jim releases his hand to get out of the paramedics’ way, the boy grabs his sleeve. “What is it, Dick?”

Eyes still teary, Dick mouths, “Thank…you.”

Unable to speak past the monumental lump in his throat, Jim responds by squeezing his hand.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to all you wonderful people who commented and gave kudos. I'm sorry I didn't get to respond to everyone individually but it really has been the craziest week. Hope you all have a lovely weekend.

Batman stares at the computer screen in despair. None of the Arlows in the system match the image of the man he’s trying to find. 

“Dammit,” he whispers, pulling off the cowl and burying his head in his hands.

He’s been searching for Freddie Arlow all night, running image recognition on every Fred, Freddie or Fredrick Arlow in the system. It was the only option after breaking into the Hilton’s staff files and discovering that Arlow had given the hotel a fake address. And now it looks like the bastard was clever enough to use a stolen identity as well. 

Bruce drags his head up to stare at the computer screen again.

The computer is still running facial recognition on every street and CCTV camera in Gotham, but it’s going to take hours and Dick doesn’t have that kind of time. Bruce needs to come up with another plan, one that doesn’t involve questioning the hotel staff for more information. Gordon’s officers have already done that and he won’t waste precious time doing the same when it’s unlikely to uncover anything. Every staff member had said that Arlow kept mostly to himself, with only three staff members being able to name places they had seen him outside of work. Bruce knows this because Gordon spoke with Batman. 

The police captain also called Bruce Wayne to tell him they have a lead, although he was careful not to share the more disturbing information that he doesn’t realize Bruce already knows. Bruce also knows that Gordon has more than half his force working on finding Arlow, but it’s doing little to keep the fear in check because it’s clear that Dick is running out of time. 

If he hasn’t run out of time already.

Bruce takes a deep breath to stave off the panic bubbling beneath the surface. He needs to keep a cool head. Losing it now won’t help him find Dick. 

But it’s hard to keep it together when he’s running on nothing but adrenaline and caffeine and fear, when he knows that somewhere out there his son’s life is slowly being strangled out of him. The thought wrings a surge of violent feelings from him, making him want to tear his hair out.

“You’ve had no luck with your search, Master Bruce?” Alfred’s voice sounds behind him, and Bruce turns to see him surveying the screen with a grim expression.

Bruce shakes his head and Alfred sighs. “I take it you’ve heard nothing more from Captain Gordon either?” 

“Not since he called to say he was expanding the search.”

“They may have found something, sir.”

“It’s been hours. I would have heard by now if they had.” Bruce glances back at the screen. Something aches in his chest. “I just want to find him, Alfred. I want him home.”

“I know,” says Alfred softly, placing a hand on his shoulder. “I do too.”

Bruce glances at his old friend and sees the pain he’s feeling mirrored there. Dick means as much to Alfred as he does to him. He sighs and grinds the heels of his hands into his exhausted eyes. Five nights without sleep have caught up with him and he’s finding it difficult to think clearly. Despite what most of his fellow Leaguers think, Batman is human and functions less effectively without rest. In fact, the only Leaguer who can power on for days without rest and still operate to the peak of his abilities is–

“Clark!” Bruce cries, jerking to his feet and slamming his hands on the computer console. 

“Sir?”

“Clark, I need to call Clark! He may be able to find Dick using his hearing!” 

Bruce has never needed to call another Leaguer into Gotham, but he won’t let his pride stop him now. Not when Dick’s life is on the line. He grabs his cell phone sitting on the nearby table, fingers closing around it just as it starts to ring. He glances at the screen.

Jim Gordon.

His stomach lurches and he answers quickly. “Captain Gordon?”

“Mr. Wayne,” the officer’s voice rushes down the line, “we’ve found him; we’ve found Dick. He’s alive.”

The weight of emotion that crashes over Bruce nearly staggers him and he clutches at the table. “Where is he?! Is he alright?!” 

“The paramedics are getting him ready for transport now. They’re taking him to Gotham General and I’m going to ride with them. We should be there in about fifteen minutes.”

“I’ll meet you there! And, Jim…thank you.” 

“Mr. Wayne, you have no idea how glad I am to be able to make this call. I’ll see you soon.” The officer hangs up and Bruce looks at Alfred, whose face is taut with hope. 

“He’s alive. Dick’s alive. They’ve found him. He’s alive.” Bruce is giddy and shaking from the torrent of emotions whirling through him.

“Oh, thank heavens!” Alfred breathes, one hand over his heart. “Where is he?”

“They’re taking him to Gotham General. I’m meeting them there.”

“ _We’re_ meeting them there. I’ll get the car ready whilst you change into something more suitable.”

Bruce is striding towards the changing rooms before Alfred even finishes, divesting himself of his cape as he goes.

oOo

It takes less than twenty minutes to reach Gotham General, but it feels like forever. Alfred hasn’t even parked the car before Bruce is out and running for the ER.

He dashes through the door and hurries to the information desk. “I’m looking for Dick Grayson,” he tells the nurse behind the desk.

The man’s eyes widen. “Mr…Wayne?”

“Yes! Now, where is Dick Grayson?”

Clearly flustered, the nurse looks at the computer in front of him and then back at Bruce. “I’m sorry, Mr. Wayne, no one’s been admitted under that name.”

“The ambulance would only have come in a few minutes ago; his name might not be in the system yet.” 

“But there hasn’t been an ambulance admission for almost thirty minutes.”

Bruce is too on edge to deal with this and can feel his temper fraying fast. “I was told by the police captain that my son was on his way to _this_ hospital. Now can you _please_ find out where he is?” 

“I… Just give me a few minutes and I’ll see where the ambulance is,” the nurse offers, picking up the phone.

“Master Bruce?” Alfred says, and he turns to face the butler. “Where is Master Dick?”

“I don’t know. For some reason the ambulance hasn’t arrive-d…” his voice tails off as the automatic doors _swish_ open and two paramedics enter with a gurney, Jim Gordon following close behind them. 

“Dick,” Bruce breathes, running towards them at once.

The boy is strapped to the gurney, an oxygen mask over his face. Bruce’s insides shrivel at the sight of his mangled neck – a horrific mix of bruised, torn and welted flesh. His eyes are closed and Bruce isn’t sure if he’s conscious or not. “Dick?” he whispers.

“You need to speak up,” the male paramedic tells him. “Both his eardrums are ruptured.”

Fucking hell, he’s going to murder the bastard who’s done this. “Dick?” he calls in a louder voice.

Dick’s eyes open, and Bruce feels something hot and violent surge up inside him. His eyes are red! Fucking red! He can only imagine the brutality that took. “Hey,” he just about manages, nearly choking on the rage he’s feeling.

“Bruce?” Dick mouths soundlessly.

Nodding, Bruce reaches out and runs a hand through Dick’s hair. “I missed you, kiddo.”

Dick just stares up at him.

“Alright, let’s get him into trauma three,” a female doctor says, pointing down the corridor.

The paramedics manoeuvre the gurney and Bruce falls into step on its left. He tries to listen to what the paramedics are telling the doctor, but is distracted by the small, trembling hand that worms its way out from the blankets and reaches towards him. Bruce grasps it gently while Dick continues to stare at him, blue eyes wide and scared. 

“It’s okay, I’ve got you,” he says, trying to smile reassuringly when he spies the bloody bandages around Dick’s wrist and the bruises littering his arm. Jesus fucking Christ, he’s going to wring the neck of the bastard who’s done this! He’ll spend the rest of his life sucking his food through a straw when Batman gets through with him!

But then Dick makes a noise that sounds like a sob and Bruce tries to reign in his anger. The righteous fury of Batman isn’t what Dick needs right now. He needs Bruce Wayne. He needs a father.

The gurney pushes through a set of blue doors into a small trauma room, where another doctor and two nurses are waiting. The paramedics start unbuckling the straps while the medical team begin prepping their equipment. Dick squeezes Bruce’s hand. He looks petrified. 

“Okay, let’s get him on the bed,” one of the doctors says briskly. 

The two paramedics and a nurse aid in transferring Dick from the gurney to the bed. His hand slips from Bruce’s grasp and he grabs for it in panic.

“It’s alright, Dick,” says Bruce soothingly, as the paramedics push their gurney away. He steps closer, taking Dick’s hand again. “I’m right here.”

Dick responds by darting his eyes around the room, like a trapped animal looking for a way out.

Then the female doctor is beside them, setting up an IV. “Richard, honey,” she speaks in a soft voice, “I know you’re scared, but I promise, we’re going to take good care of you.”

Dick doesn’t look at her and Bruce can feel his small hand trembling. It makes something hurt inside of him. 

She moves to insert the IV, but Dick yanks his arm back, his breathing hitching. 

The doctor immediately draws back. “Alright, honey, we don’t have to do that yet. I’ll just look at your eyes instead.”

She takes out a small pen light and moves to examine Dick’s eyes, only for him to jerk away, chest beginning to heave rapidly. 

The doctor and Bruce exchange a look. Treatment is going to be a problem.

The medical team step back, while Bruce leans closer to Dick. The child freezes instantly, reminding Bruce of a frightened rabbit – all big eyes and startled reactions. “It’s okay, Dickie, you’re safe. The doctors just need to examine you, okay?”

Dick squeezes Bruce’s hand so hard his nails dig into Bruce’s skin. 

The medical team gather round again, but Dick jerks to a sitting position, eyes now wild with panic as his breathing stretches into shuddering, rasping gasps. He’s shaking violently and Bruce feels alarm prickle when he recognizes the start of a panic attack.

“It’s alright, Dickie, just relax,” he soothes, putting an arm around him.

It’s the wrong thing to do. Dick gives a broken cry and shoves himself away from Bruce. Only the quick reflexes of a doctor on the other side of the bed stop him from toppling to the floor. 

“Hey, hey, it’s okay, kiddo, it’s okay,” says Bruce, with a calm he most definitely doesn’t feel. 

Dick is now clawing at his chest while sucking in the desperate, ragged gasps of someone who can’t breathe, and who the fuck is Bruce kidding? There is _nothing_ okay about this!

“Mr. Wayne,” the doctor addresses him quietly, “we’ll have to sedate him. We can’t afford to aggravate those neck injuries.” 

“Just give me a minute,” Bruce says and turns back to Dick, holding his hands up in a placating gesture. “Relax, Dick, you’re safe, I promise. No one is going to hurt you here.”

Dick doesn’t look at him, just continues to gasp and clutch at his chest. Bruce reaches for his hand but Dick whacks at it, a small whine trickling out between the gasps. His expression is dazed and frightened, and he seems to be looking through Bruce. Then he reaches up and starts to claw at his mutilated neck, prompting Bruce and both doctors to grab his hands.

Dick reacts instantly, lashing out as though he’s being attacked. He punches the female doctor, then scratches viciously at Bruce’s face, raking several long scratches down his right cheek, before clawing at his neck again. Horrified, Bruce realizes Dick is too lost in the depths of his terror to tell the difference between a panic attack and being strangled.

He grabs the boy’s arms and tucks them close against his side, wrapping his own arms around Dick in a tight hug. “It’s alright, Dickie, it’s alright,” he says softly, gesturing to the doctor with his head that he wants her to sedate Dick. 

She moves quickly. As soon as the needle pierces his arm, Dick whimpers and struggles feebly against Bruce, his sobs cutting Bruce to the quick. It feels wrong to restrain him like this, but he doesn’t know what else to do – Dick is half out of his mind with fear, and his condition is too critical to talk down safely.

“Shhhhhh,” he says, his right arm keeping Dick pinned against his chest, while his left hand comes up to stroke the boy’s hair. He feels helpless and he hates it. “It’s alright, Dickie, it’s alright. I’m here. Shhhhhh.”

He continues to stroke Dick’s hair as his struggles weaken and the sobs taper off. Within minutes, he’s limp in his arms. Bruce lies him down carefully and steps back for the doctors to treat him.

The medical team work fast, talking rapidly to each other. It’s a struggle to focus on what they’re saying. Their frantic pace is making Bruce feel panicked and off-balance, sensations he’s wholly unused to dealing with. He’s used to being in control…except there’s nothing controlled about this situation.

A shrill sound rips the air and Bruce stops breathing. One of the monitors is going off, screaming out a warning that something is wrong. 

He steps forward, but a petite nurse moves in front of him. Then the small room shrinks as more people pour in, flowing around the bed and blocking Dick from view.

“You need to leave now, Mr. Wayne,” says the nurse firmly, pushing against his chest with surprising force for someone so small.

Bruce remembers to breathe. “I’m staying with him.”

“ _Now_ , Mr. Wayne!” she snaps, shocking him. He’s not used to being spoken to like this. 

The next thing he knows, he’s standing in the corridor with the doors closing in his face. 

Bruce blinks. He’s never been thrown out of anywhere in his life! How dare she?! 

Furious, he moves to enter the trauma room again, only for hands to grab his arm. “No, Master Bruce! The medical staff sent you out here for a reason.”

Bruce turns his head and finds Alfred’s concerned face staring back at him. “I’m not leaving–”

“You have to,” Alfred interrupts, and Bruce’s eyes widen. Since when does Alfred interrupt people? “Let them work, sir, Master Dick needs their help.”

Bruce looks at the door his hand is still pressed against. He needs to know what’s going on. After spending five days without knowing if his son was dead or alive, he can’t handle being in the dark again.

“Please, sir, you would only be in the way,” Alfred tells him gently.

Bruce feels himself sag. Alfred is right, but knowing that doesn’t make this any easier. He _wants_ to be with his son. Reluctantly, he nods and his hand falls away from the door.

“Are you alright?” Alfred asks. “Those scratches look nasty.”

Bruce reaches up and feels blood trickling down his cheek. “I’m fine, Alfred. They’re just scratches.” 

Alfred’s expression makes it clear he wants an explanation. Bruce sighs. “Dick did it. He panicked, lashed out. The doctors had to sedate him.”

“He had a panic attack?” Alfred looks upset. “He’s never had a panic attack before.” 

“Hardly surprising given what he’s just been through,” another voice interrupts, and Bruce turns to find Jim Gordon. The officer’s expression is grim. “I’m sorry to intrude, Mr. Wayne, I just want to see if there’s any word on Dick yet?”

Bruce shakes his head, eyes straying to the frustratingly closed doors. He fights the instinct to push them open. He wants to be with his son, especially after the hell he’s just been through. His brain clicks and he snaps back to the police captain. “Tell me you got the bastard who did this! Tell me he’s in custody!”

Gordon nods, his eyes hard and angry. “We got him. And I promise, Mr. Wayne, I’m going to do everything in my power to make sure he spends the rest of his life rotting in a cell!”  
Bruce knows he will. Jim Gordon is a man of his word. “Thank you, Captain,” he says, holding out his hand. “For finding him. For saving his life.”

Gordon returns the handshake just as the trauma room doors burst open and Dick’s gurney is wheeled out, the medical team surrounding it.

“What’s going on?” Bruce demands, following them down the corridor. He can’t see Dick.

“We’re not certain,” a doctor replies. “He needs surgery and an MRI.”

“Surgery?!” repeats Bruce in alarm. “When?”

“Now.”

And then they’re loading the gurney into an elevator, three of the medical team still swarming around it. Bruce can see he won’t fit and stares helplessly after them. He catches a brief glimpse of Dick’s unconscious face just as the elevator doors slide shut.

oOo

Bruce has a new understanding of the desire to kill.

Oh, sure, he’s had nights where some psychopath – usually Joker – has driven him to his limits and nearly pushed him off the edge, but this is different. 

He’s never wanted to rip someone’s throat out before. 

Bruce can’t put into words the rage he feels, the absolute hatred, for the monster who brutalized and tortured his child for five fucking _days!_ All he knows is that there’s something hot, violent and nasty crawling under his skin, making him feel all kinds of wrong.

He reaches for the little figure in the bed, gently brushing his hand through Dick’s hair before surveying his battered, deformed neck for the umpteenth time. Dick had needed surgery to fully assess his throat injuries because there was too much swelling to get a clear picture from the MRI. It had taken almost three hours, but the surgeon had managed to repair the oesophageal injuries before manipulating the trachea, which had involved removing fractured pieces of laryngeal cartilage and inserting a mini-plate to stabilize the laryngeal structure. Fortunately – the doctor’s word, not Bruce’s – despite the brutal and prolonged nature of the attacks, Dick’s hyoid bone hadn’t splintered enough to destroy his larynx. His age meant the hyoid was still pliable enough to break cleanly instead of just shattering beneath the force of Arlow’s attacks.

Small fucking mercies that mean absolutely fucking nothing.

Bruce grinds his teeth and resists the urge to froth and rage like a madman. It won’t make him feel better and it certainly won’t do anything to change what Dick’s been through. He can’t call it an ordeal, even hell doesn’t seem sufficient to describe what’s been inflicted on his son. Bruce doesn’t think there _are_ words strong enough, all he knows is that Dick suffered horrifically so some monster could live out his depraved fucking fantasies!

The instinct to kill increases and Bruce growls low in his throat.

“Sir?” Alfred’s quiet voice comes from the other side of the bed. 

“Sorry, Alfred, just thinking.”

His butler hums, as though he knows exactly what Bruce is thinking, but makes no further comment. Bruce strongly suspects the older man’s silence is due to his distress; Alfred had been visibly shaken by the doctor’s recounting of Dick’s injuries and hasn’t said more than six words to Bruce since the boy was admitted to the ICU.

Bruce would be concerned by the normally stoic butler’s reaction if not for the fact he’s struggling as much as Alfred is. Dick’s injuries are extensive and horrifying, and despite seeing many horrors as Batman, Bruce can’t wrap his head around someone getting off on doing this to a child. Neck trauma aside, Dick has pneumonia; a consequence of fluid in his lungs from the repeated strangulations, hypothermia from the poor conditions he was held in, and the broken ribs he suffered. Then there’s the three broken fingers on his right hand, the broken nose, sprained left wrist, severe lacerations to both wrists from the restraints, ruptured eardrums, burst blood vessels in his eyes, face and throat, bruising and contusions… And they don’t even know yet if the strangulations have caused any brain damage!

His anger is taking over again, the red rage descending on him like a suffocating fog. 

Bruce forces himself to breathe and clenches his fists into tight balls, nails digging into his palms and drawing blood…using pain to ground him. He can’t give in to this rage. He needs to be calm so he can be there for his son, so he can help him get through this.

There’s a knock and a nurse enters the room. “Sorry to interrupt, Mr. Wayne, has Richard woken up yet?”

“Not yet,” replies Bruce, voice tight. Dick should have woken up some time ago, but is struggling to come out of the sedation. His blood work indicates he was drugged heavily and his doctor thinks it’s compounding the issue.

The nurse nods. “I’m just going to check his stats.”

Bruce stands up and moves out of her way. He watches as she takes Dick’s temperature and checks his vitals. She’s just adjusting his oxygen when Dick emits a small noise. Alfred and Bruce crowd the bed instantly. 

“Dick?” prompts Bruce, keeping his voice soft.

No response.

“Richard, can you hear us?” the nurse practically shouts. Bruce scowls until he remembers the ruptured eardrums. 

One of Dick’s hands gives a barely perceptible jerk and a tiny frown creases his forehead. 

“Richard?” the nurse prompts again.

A small exhale of air, and then Bruce spots Dick’s eyes moving beneath his lids. He’s coming around. Finally. 

“Dick?” he says, louder this time, lightly clasping the child’s left hand.

Dick makes a small, strangled sound, almost like a whimper.

“It’s okay, kiddo, it’s okay. It’s me,” Bruce soothes, watching anxiously as Dick’s eyes flutter, clearly struggling to open.

“Perhaps we should give him a moment?” suggests Alfred quietly. “He may not be fully aware yet.”

Bruce nods and reigns in the instinct to call Dick again. 

It takes several minutes before his eyes slowly blink open. This time, Bruce is able to hide his wince at the blood red eyes, but grimaces when Alfred stifles a gasp with his hand. He’d forgotten to warn the older man about that.

Bruce manages some vague facsimile of a smile. “Hey there, kiddo.”

The boy blinks dazedly up at him and his mouth opens slightly beneath the mask.

“Don’t try to talk,” the nurse says quickly. “You’ve had surgery and your voice isn’t up to speech yet.”

Clearly disoriented, Dick stares up at her before his eyes flit to Alfred and then back to Bruce. He blinks again, swallows…and his face crumples in pain. “Ah…” he croaks, low and pitiful, before starting to cough. His eyes scrunch shut and his body goes rigid with distress.

“Easy, Dick, let me get you some water,” says Bruce, reaching for the pitcher on the nightstand.

The nurse stops him. “I’m sorry Mr. Wayne, but Dr. Gates has ordered a nothing-by-mouth period for the next thirty-six hours.”

“Are you serious?!” demands Bruce furiously, gesturing at Dick’s coughing form. 

“I know it seems counter-productive, but it’s the safest course of action after…everything. Here, let me elevate his bed, it should alleviate the coughing a little and help him breathe easier.” The nurse presses the button for the bed, slowly bringing Dick to a more upright position. “Try and relax, Richard,” she tells him, “take smaller breaths.”

Bruce tries to hide his anger as he rubs Dick’s arm. Why wasn’t he told about this nothing-by-mouth thing sooner?! “It’s okay, kiddo, just relax. Shhhhh.”

He continues to rub gentle circles on Dick’s arm as the coughs get weaker, eventually tapering off. Face pinched with pain, Dick opens watering eyes and looks at Bruce. 

“Don’t say anything,” Bruce reminds him, before he can speak. 

“Richard,” the nurse says, “just give a small nod to answer me. Do you know where you are?”

Dick gives a small nod and Bruce feels a brief burst of relief. Dick aware and coherent is a good sign – he’s spent the last few hours dreading potential brain damage.

“Do you have any pain?” the nurse wants to know.

Closing his eyes again, Dick nods.

“Okay, Richard, use your good fingers to show me; how bad is the pain on a scale of one to ten, with ten being the worst?”

Face taut with discomfort, Dick opens his eyes and extends the five fingers on his left hand, then retracts them and extends another three. Bruce’s heart sinks. Eight. 

The nurse’s professional expression morphs into sympathy. “Eight? Oh, sweetie. I’ll get the doctor to give you something for that. I’ll be back in a few minutes.” She picks up the pitcher of water and looks at Bruce. “I’ll get some ice chips for his lips. I know it seems wrong not to let him have any liquids, but it really is in his best interests. Dr. Gates said we can start him on a clear liquid diet after thirty-six hours if he’s up to it. We’ll keep him on an IV for nutrients until then.”

She leaves and Bruce returns his attention to Dick. He no longer seems dazed or disoriented, but looks painfully alert instead. 

Bruce sits carefully on the edge of the bed and strokes his fingers through Dick’s hair. He has no idea what to say and smiles instead. It feels only marginally less fake than the one he produced a few minutes ago. 

On the other side of the bed, Alfred pats the boy’s arm. “It is good to see you, young sir. We missed you terribly.”

Dick glances at Alfred, then back at Bruce. His mouth twists a little.

Bruce continues to run his fingers through the boy’s hair. “Alfred’s right. We really missed you, kiddo.”

Dick blinks, then blinks again. His eyes look suspiciously watery.

Something spasms unpleasantly in Bruce’s gut and he removes his hand from the child’s hair. “Dick?”

The boy makes a small, strangled noise, before placing his left hand over his eyes. It’s shaking, and beneath the oxygen mask his lips are trembling. There’s another sound, like a gasp, and then a clear sob. Followed by another, and another. Dick’s shoulders start to shudder.

Shit. “Oh, Dickie, no,” whispers Bruce miserably, sliding up to sit beside Dick and gingerly putting one arm around him. He remembers how the boy reacted to that in the ER.

But instead of shoving him away, Dick turns into Bruce’s chest, burying his face in his shirt and grabbing his jacket with his left hand. And then he breaks down completely, huge, gut-wrenching sobs shaking his thin frame.

Bruce wraps his arms around him, and lifts him practically into his lap. He glances at Alfred, who’s watching Dick with an expression of such sorrow it almost takes his breath away.

“It’s okay, kiddo,” Bruce murmurs into the boy’s hair. “I’ve got you, you’re safe.” He tightens his arms around Dick sobbing desperately against him and grief swells in his own heart. 

How is he supposed to fix this?


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay in getting this up, I've been working some long hours the last two weeks. Thank you to everyone who left kudos and comments. You guys are awesome. :)

“Come on, Dick, just try some,” Bruce coaxes, watching the boy stare with revulsion at the soup in front of him. It’s been like pulling teeth to get him to eat ever since the doctors put him on a liquid diet. Alfred started bringing food from the manor yesterday in the hopes of enticing him with more appetizing meals, but Dick still hasn’t swallowed more than two spoons of anything.

“Dick, you have to eat,” Bruce tells him, when he makes no move to taste the soup. The boy has lost weight and his small frame can’t afford to lose any more.

Dick looks up, and those red eyes staring out through circles of dark bruising still make Bruce’s parental instincts scream. He’s finding it difficult to shake his rage since he hasn’t had the opportunity to vent it as Batman; he’s barely left the hospital since Dick was admitted. He doesn’t want to leave the boy alone.

“Come on, kiddo, just a few spoons,” he pleads.

“I’m not hungry.” Dick’s voice is hoarse and barely a whisper. He’s been able to talk since yesterday – his voice shockingly weak and brittle – but has hardly said two words. 

Bruce isn’t sure if it’s because it hurts to talk, or because he doesn’t want to. “I know you don’t feel well, but you need to eat to get your strength back.”

Dick drops his gaze, staring into the soup once more, and Bruce glances at Alfred for help. He doesn’t know how to deal with this; he can’t very well _force_ the boy to eat, but he _needs_ to eat.

“Master Dick,” the butler addresses him softly, “Master Bruce is quite right. You need to eat to get well. We cannot bring you home until you are well.”

Dick doesn’t respond.

Alfred touches his hand. “Please, young sir, it would make us both feel so much better if you ate, even a little.”

Dick’s shoulders sag, but he picks up the spoon and dips it into the soup. Bruce feels a slight pinch of relief when he swallows a spoonful. Even a little is better than nothing.

Dick is on his seventh spoon when there’s a knock at the door.

“Yes?” calls Bruce, inwardly cursing whoever is interrupting. This is the most they’ve managed to persuade Dick to eat.

Jim Gordon enters the hospital room. “Afternoon, Mr. Wayne, Mr. Pennyworth.”

Dick drops his spoon into the bowl and Bruce represses a sigh. “Captain Gordon, what can I do for you?”

“Just here to see Dick,” he answers, shaking his head slightly to indicate _not here_ before turning to Dick with a smile. “Hi, Dick. How are you feeling?”

The boy shrugs, but doesn’t look at Gordon. 

“Barbara told me to say hi,” the officer continues. “She’ll come and see you as soon as you’re up to it. In the meantime, she sent you this.” Gordon proffers a giftbag towards him. When Dick doesn’t take it, he places it gently on the bed.

“Master Dick, what do you say?” Alfred prompts.

“Thank you,” he whispers, without looking up.

The ball of worry that’s been twisting Bruce’s stomach into knots for the last week coils even tighter and he exchanges a helpless look with Alfred. Dick’s been withdrawing to the point that his interaction with the people around him – including them – is almost non-existent. It hurts Bruce to see his happy, sociable child disappear into a listless, apathetic shell.

“You’re welcome,” says Gordon. A pause, then, “Dick…you know we got the man who hurt you, right? He’s never getting out of prison, I promise you that.”

The fingers on Dick’s left hand clamp around his right forearm and he shrinks into himself.

The expression on Gordon’s face is sad when he turns to Bruce. “I’m going to let Dick get some rest now, but I was wondering if I could have a quick word with you, Mr. Wayne?”

Bruce nods. “I’ll walk you out.”

“Goodbye, Mr. Pennyworth,” Gordon tells Alfred, before looking at Dick once more. “You take care, Dick, okay?”

Alfred responds when Dick doesn’t. “Goodbye, Captain Gordon, thank you for coming.”

Gordon follows Bruce out of the room. “How long has he been like that?” he asks, as soon as the door closes behind them.

“Four days,” Bruce replies, rubbing a hand over his exhausted eyes. “He’s not eating either. I don’t know what to do.”

“He needs to talk to someone. A professional. He’s not going to get over something like this without help.”

“I know. I’ve already contacted the best child psychiatrist in the city, but Dick isn’t up to therapy yet – he can’t talk for long and it hurts to speak.” Bruce clenches his fists and growls, “I hope you meant it when you said that bastard was never getting out of prison, Captain.”

“I did. But I also need to talk to you about Arlow; I’m afraid we’ve encountered a problem.”

“What problem?” demands Bruce sharply.

“Well, for starters, his real name isn’t Freddie Arlow, it’s Ben Johnson. We ID’ed him last night; his fingerprints linked him to an assault in Hilliard, Florida, five years ago. I spoke to the local sheriff who said Johnson was their prime suspect, but he fled town before they could arrest him. Johnson grew up in Hilliard, so the sheriff knew him. He was able to ID him because of the scar on his cheek – his father gave it to him after he caught him smoking as a teenager.” 

“Why are you telling me this?” 

“Because Johnson is a ghost. After he fled Hilliard, there’s no record of him anywhere in the system. My guess is he’s been using stolen identities this whole time.”

“I still don’t see the problem,” says Bruce, wishing Gordon would just get to the point. “You have him now, don’t you?”

Gordon sighs. “You know how I told you the FBI have linked Johnson to another twelve murders outside of Gotham?”

Bruce nods. He’d known about those murders before Gordon filled him in on Johnson – Arlow at the time – after Dick was admitted to the hospital, but he couldn’t exactly let the police captain know that.

“Well, their only link is his MO – strangulation. All the bodies were found in water, so there’s no actual physical evidence connecting Johnson to those other murders, meaning we can’t prosecute him for them. At least, not without help.”

“What do you mean, ‘not without help’?”

Gordon hesitates, purses his lips and then exhales through his nose. “We found a video camera at the water plant. There’s footage of what he did to Dick and Daniel Martin on there.”

“He _filmed_ it?!” exclaims Bruce in horror.

“Not all of it – there’s only a few hours of footage – but it’s enough to prove he murdered Daniel Martin.”

Bruce feels sick. There’s video evidence of his child being tortured? Jesus fucking Christ. 

His hands are shaking with rage as he addresses Gordon. “If he filmed Dick and the Martin boy, then he probably filmed his other victims.”

“Probably,” Gordon agrees. “But it’s unlikely we’ll ever find those tapes given that Johnson’s been crossing state lines and using aliases for the last ten years.”

“Then how are you going to connect him to those other boys?”

“In one of the clips, Johnson mentions ‘the others’ to Dick and from the way Dick responds…Mr. Wayne, I think Johnson told Dick about his other victims at some point.”

Bruce narrows his eyes. “You need Dick’s help to connect Johnson to the other murders.”

“Yes.”

“Dick’s in no condition to give a statement right now.”

“I know. We won’t take Dick’s statement until he’s ready, Mr. Wayne.”

Bruce feels like his sleep-deprived brain is missing something. Why does Gordon look so serious? “If you’re willing to wait, then I don’t see a problem here, Captain.”

Gordon sighs again. “We need more than Dick’s statement if we’re to convict Johnson of those other murders, Mr. Wayne.”

Realization slams into Bruce. “You mean _testify_?!”

“I’m afraid so.”

Bruce explodes. “Absolutely _not!_ I’m not putting Dick in a courtroom to face the monster who tortured him for five days! Are you out of your mind, Captain?!”

“I can talk to the DA about letting Dick testify via video link so he won’t have to face Johnson.”

“I don’t care! What do you think the stress of a trial will do to him after all this?! No. No way!”

“Mr. Wayne,” Gordon’s voice is quiet, “Dick is Johnson’s only surviving victim. He’s the only one who can connect him to those other murders. We need him.”

“You said the video evidence is enough to prove Johnson murdered Daniel Martin; that should be enough to have him convicted of murder.”

“And what about justice for the other twelve children he tortured and murdered?”

Bruce has no response to such a devastating question.

“Mr. Wayne, I know how hard this is, and I’m sorry, but those other boys suffered just as much as Dick did. They deserve justice too.”

Feeling the urge to punch something, Bruce runs a hand over his face. He knows the captain is right, but he just wants to protect his son, dammit! Dick has suffered enough. 

_And what about the parents of those other boys?_ his conscience prods.

Bruce closes his eyes. He would have been one of those parents if not for Jim Gordon. They could be standing in a morgue right now instead of a hospital. Despite how hellish this situation is, Bruce knows he’s the only parent lucky enough to get his child back. 

Exhaling through clenched teeth, he opens his eyes. “You’ll talk to the DA about letting Dick testify via video link?”

“Yes.”

“What about cross examination? I don’t want some slimy defence attorney tearing him apart.”

“I doubt any defence attorney would be stupid enough to cross examine Dick harshly. Doing that after everything he’s just been through would only make the jury more sympathetic towards him, and more inclined to convict Johnson.”

“Alright, fine,” Bruce grinds out, before giving Gordon a hard look. “But I want your word that Dick will be given every support offered by the courts for victim testimony. He might be the one who survived, but that means he has to _live_ with what Johnson did to him.”

The police captain nods. “I’ll do everything I can, Mr. Wayne. I promise.”

oOo

“Here we are, home sweet home.”

Bruce turns to Dick, that false-cheerful smile Bruce has been wearing for days frozen on his face. He looks like he’s expecting Dick to say something, but Dick just can’t muster up the strength. He nods instead, glancing around the entrance hall of the manor. It looks the same.

But it doesn’t feel the same.

“Master Dick, welcome home,” says Alfred, coming from the direction of the kitchen. 

His expression is neutral and Dick much prefers it to Bruce’s unnatural cheer. “Hi, Alfred.”

Alfred holds out a hand for the bag Bruce is holding. “I’ll take that, sir. Lunch is ready if you’d both like to clean up.”

Lunch. Dick’s stomach churns. “Alfred, would it be okay if I took a nap first? I’m tired.”

He doesn’t miss the look they exchange. 

“Master Dick, would it not be better to eat first and then take a nap?” asks Alfred gently.

“I’m really tired,” Dick insists.

There’s that look between them again. Dick is so tired of seeing that look. “What?!” he shouts, or tries to. His voice is still pathetically _weak_. “I’m not allowed to be tired now?”

The frozen smile melts from Bruce’s face. “It’s not that, Dick. You just haven’t eaten very much today.” 

“That’s because I’m not hungry! I’m _tired_ , okay!”

“Okay, kiddo, okay.”

“I’m going to bed,” Dick says, and climbs the stairs, silence hanging heavy in the air behind him.

When Dick reaches his room, he closes the door and leans against it. Why did he snap? Bruce and Alfred were only trying to help.

Sighing miserably, he scrubs at his face with his hands. It’s a mess inside his head, emotions and thoughts exploding all over the place – half the time he doesn’t even know what he’s feeling! 

He coughs, making pain flare. The worst of the pneumonia is over, but the lingering cough still aggravates his ribs and throat. Another cough sends him shuffling wearily to the bathroom. He wasn’t lying about being tired; he’s exhausted from the pain.

Dick stares at his unrecognizable reflection as he takes a glass from the bathroom cabinet and fills it with water. The bruises and swelling are ugly, but pale in comparison to his creepy red eyes. Dr. Gates told him they should clear up in another week, meaning Dick is stuck looking like a horror movie reject until then. 

He coughs again, and takes a sip of water to soothe his throat. Eight days since he was rescued and it still hurts. Dick’s gaze drifts to his neck, before looking away quickly. He’d rather not think about what that man did to him.

His hands are trembling and he takes a large gulp of water, but splutters when it goes down the wrong way. Some water trickles out of his mouth and rolls down his chin.  
The next thing he knows, hands are around his neck, squeezing hard.

Dick coughs and chokes, blackness rolling over him…he can’t breathe…there’s a shattering sound…he can’t breathe…hands tighten around his throat…he can’t breathe…

Frantic, Dick tries to jerk away…and feels pressure close in around his throat. He tries to scream, but hands wring his neck violently. 

Panic sucks him under…he can’t be back here…he’s not…he can’t…

The hands are strangling…he can’t breathe…

Choking and gasping and desperate, Dick lashes out…utter terror is drowning him…

Hands, hands, hands…he can’t breathe…

He’s shaking…someone is shaking him…a voice is yelling…

Dick coughs, gasps, chokes…the voice is getting louder…

“DICK!”

He whimpers…there’s hands on his arms…nononononononooooo….

“DICK!”

He’s coughing…he can’t breathe…he tries to claw at the hands around his neck but something grabs his wrists…

“ _DICK!_ ”

That doesn’t sound like…it sounds like…

The hands are gone…light floods his vision…

“Come on, Dick, _please!_ ”

Dick sucks in air…he can breathe again…

“It’s okay, Dickie, it’s okay. You’re safe.”

Dick blinks rapidly and the world blurs back into focus. Bruce is crouched in front of him, thin-lipped and grim-looking.

“Wh-what?” he rasps, heart hammering wildly in his chest.

“You back with me, kiddo?” asks Bruce softly.

“I– I don’t…” Dick darts a look around. He’s in his own bathroom. There’s glass all over the floor and Alfred is standing in the doorway with one hand over his mouth. “How…?”

“Did you have a panic attack?” presses Bruce gently.

Panic attack? What’s he talking about? Dick doesn’t _have_ panic attacks.

His eyes fall on Bruce’s massive hands clamped around his wrists. Dick jerks them out of his grasp. 

Bruce immediately shuffles back, away from Dick, but stays in his crouched position. “What happened?” 

“I…the man…he was here…he tried to…” Dick raises a hand to touch his neck, jumping when Bruce grabs it.

“Sorry,” says Bruce, dropping his hand at once, “but you were hurting yourself, kiddo.”

“No…it wasn’t me…it was him…he was– he was here…”

Bruce is looking at him with his Batman face, all sharp and focused. “No one was here, Dick. It’s just you, me and Alfred.”

“But…I don’t…” Dick is shaking violently. “He was here…”

“No, kiddo, he wasn’t. He’s in jail, remember?”

Dick is confused. “But…he was _here_ …”

Bruce shakes his head. “Dickie, I promise, he wasn’t here.”

Heart still pounding in his chest, Dick stares at Bruce. He doesn’t understand. He had felt the hands. It had felt _real_.

“Did you think you were back there with him?” Bruce’s voice is soft.

Trembling, Dick glances up at Alfred, who’s watching him with sad eyes, and then back at Bruce. Slowly, he nods.

Bruce sighs. “Alright, kiddo. Let’s get you out of here so we can clean up that glass.” He stands up and holds his arm out, as though he’s going to put it around Dick’s shoulders.

Instinctively, Dick presses his back against the wall, senses screaming at him to run. 

Bruce immediately drops his arm.

“Sorry,” Dick whispers, because what is _wrong_ with him? It’s just Bruce.

“You have nothing to apologize for,” says Bruce quietly, before gesturing at Alfred. The butler backs out of the doorway and into the bedroom. “Would you prefer to follow me out?”

Hugging his arms around himself, Dick nods.

Wordlessly, Bruce leaves the bathroom, glass crunching underfoot. Dick takes several deep breaths before following him out.

Bruce and Alfred are standing by the bed, away from the bathroom door and the entrance to his bedroom. Dick relaxes a little. He’s home. He’s safe.

“Do you still want to take a nap?” Bruce asks.

Dick shakes his head. He’s afraid to close his eyes after that.

Bruce’s expression is calm. “Okay. Would you prefer to stay here, or do you want to come downstairs?”

“I…” Dick swallows. What if he stays up here and it happens again? “Downstairs, but…I’m not hungry, Bruce.”

It’s Alfred who responds. “That’s alright, Master Dick. I can make you something later when you are. But perhaps you would like some hot chocolate?”

Dick thinks about it. He feels wrung out; nerves shattered and panicky adrenaline jittering through him. But Alfred’s hot chocolate has helped soothe bad feelings before… Wishing he could stop shaking, Dick nods.

The butler gives him a small smile. “There’s a good lad. Why don’t you go to the den with Master Bruce and watch a movie? I can bring it in to you once I’ve cleared up the glass.”

Dick nods again. 

But Bruce and Alfred don’t leave. Dick realizes they’re waiting for him to make the first move – watching him with calm, neutral expressions and keeping their distance so they won’t startle him. They’re treating him like a frightened animal about to bolt at any second, and the worst of it is, that’s pretty much exactly how Dick feels: scared and jumpy, his gut instincts screaming at him to RUN every time someone looks at him. 

He hates himself for how much it makes him feel like a victim.

oOo

“Good afternoon, Master Bruce,” Alfred greets, meeting him in the hall foyer as he returns from work.

Bruce shakes off his coat. “Hi, Alfred. How is he?”

“The same.”

“Any panic attacks?” Bruce hands Alfred his coat.

“None, thank heavens,” Alfred replies, folding Bruce’s coat over his arm and taking his briefcase.

“I suppose that’s something. Has he eaten anything?”

“Very little I’m afraid.”

Bruce sighs. “Where is he now?”

“His room. He’s spent most of the morning in there.”

Bruce glances up the stairs. “Have you checked on him?”

“Yes, but he might like it if you were to go up to him, sir.”

“I’ll do that now. Thanks, Alfred.”

“Lunch will be ready in twenty minutes,” Alfred says, heading towards the hall closet. “Perhaps you can convince the lad to eat with you.”

“I’ll try,” says Bruce, moving toward the stairs. 

He hated going into the office, but after two weeks of absence there were several important agenda items he could no longer ignore. Lucius had done his best to get Bruce out of the office in two hours, but the meetings, phone calls and contract signings had dragged into five. The delay had nearly driven Bruce crazy because all he wanted was to get home to Dick. He’s even more concerned about the boy’s mental state since the incident in the bathroom yesterday. 

Bruce feels sick every time he remembers Dick standing there, shaking and gasping with terror, completely oblivious to his surroundings. He strongly suspects the boy had a flashback and not a panic attack, but can’t be sure because Dick won’t talk about it. He won’t talk about anything relating to Johnson.

He hears the TV as he draws near Dick’s room, and frowns. The boy has had zero interest in watching television, or in doing _anything_ since he was rescued. What’s changed?

Bruce knocks on the door. No response. Pushing it open, he finds Dick sitting on the end of his bed, watching the TV with the remote hanging limp in his hand. One look at the screen reveals a picture of Daniel Martin. 

Damn it. A news report. 

Bruce crosses to the bed as quickly as he can without startling Dick. “You don’t need to be watching that,” he says, carefully taking the remote from Dick’s hand and switching off the TV.

Dick doesn’t respond, just stares ahead blankly.

“Dick?” Bruce probes, not daring to touch him to get his attention. Dick has become so skittish and volatile after his ordeal that Bruce is wary of touching him.

“He killed thirteen boys, like me,” Dick says, still staring ahead.

Bruce winces at how hollow his wispy little voice sounds. “He didn’t kill you, Dick. You survived.”

“Only because Captain Gordon found me. Why didn’t the police look as hard for those other boys?”

Bruce hides his surprise that Dick is finally talking about Johnson. He needs to be careful how he responds. “They did, Dick. There was a whole FBI task force dedicated to finding this guy. He just managed to hide himself really well.” _Bastard._

“Thirteen is a lot of bodies,” Dick says, still in that flat tone. “That’s a big trail to follow. They should have found him sooner.”

“He moved around,” Bruce explains, “crossed state lines and used stolen identities. It made him hard to track.”

Dick looks up at him, his expression empty. “They tracked him to me.” 

“Because he made a mistake. There were cameras where he abducted you.”

“There were cameras where he abducted Gavin Fields.”

“What?” says Bruce, a little thrown. Weren’t the police supposed to keep everything pertaining to the other murders quiet? “How do you know that?”

“A reporter interviewed his mother,” Dick says, glancing back at the TV screen. “It didn’t sound like the police were interested in finding her son’s murderer back then.”

There’s something off about this conversation. Bruce wishes he had a better handle on it, but Dick is being so apathetic he can’t tell what he’s thinking. “Dick, what are–” 

“She cried,” Dick interrupts. “She said the police didn’t take her seriously because she was a drug addict and her son had run away.” He looks back at Bruce. “She was so sad.”

Bruce swallows. “I’m sure she was. She lost her son.”

Dick doesn’t respond.

“Dick,” says Bruce, slowly and carefully sitting beside him, “why are you talking about this?”

“It was on TV.”

“Yes, but why are you asking questions about the police? Do you think they didn’t do their job?”

Dick shrugs. 

“Dick, if the police weren’t doing their job then they never would have found you.”

“But they did find me so I guess it doesn’t matter!” Dick snaps.

Bruce is taken aback, and holds up his hands in the placating gesture that’s rapidly becoming his default with Dick. “Whoa, kiddo, easy. What’s the matter? Are you angry the police didn’t find him sooner?”

His eyes narrow. “Aren’t you?” 

“A little,” Bruce admits, “but I know they did their best.”

Dick snorts. “Best. Yeah, right.”

“Dick, what’s going on? Why are you so upset?” Bruce wants to hit himself the instant he asks the stupid question. 

Dick stares at him like he’s lost his mind. “Upset? Gee, Bruce, I dunno, what would _I_ have to be upset about?”

“Dick, I didn’t mean–”

“Forget it!” Dick chokes, jumping up and running for the door. “It’s not like it matters anyway.”

“Of course it matters!” says Bruce, snagging his arm without thinking.

Dick slaps his hand away. “Don’t!”

“Dick–”

“DON’T!” 

He slams the door, leaving Bruce staring helplessly after him.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you to all the wonderful people who commented and left kudos. :) I very much appreciate it.

It’s dark, totally dark. Dick can’t see anything but black, yet he knows that someone is there. He can’t tell how he knows; all he knows is that there’s someone looming somewhere above him.

His first instinct is to run…until he realizes he’s lying on the floor. He moves to get up, but the looming presence pins him down. Dick struggles, desperate to get out, until something slides around his neck. 

Dick freezes. The belt.

Then the leather is pulled hard, and he’s suffocating, gasping, choking…

“Time to start begging,” a voice growls in his ear.

Terror and panic explode inside him and Dick lunges upright, trying to escape, but hands force him down. He fights for all he’s worth but the belt tightens. Agony sears through him and Dick jerks convulsively. He can’t breathe! He can’t _breathe!_

“Start begging, you little shit!” the man spits, brutally yanking the belt.

Dick makes a gagging noise that sounds like a death rattle. “P-p-pl-ack!” he chokes out. 

“You’re going to die here,” the man rasps. “Batman’s not coming to save you.”

Dick screams, before slamming into something hard. Pain shudders through him and suddenly the belt is gone. 

Shaking, he lashes out, but his hands find only empty air. _Where is he?! Where is he?!_ Dick thinks, clawing wildly all around him.

It’s chillingly silent. There’s no one here. The man is…gone?

Breathing hard, Dick realizes he’s tangled up in something. He blinks against the darkness, gradually becoming aware of shadowed outlines in front of him. That confuses him. It’s not completely black?

Dick raises a trembling hand to his eyes. The tape is gone. 

Then he sees the small chink of moonlight under some curtains…the manor. He’s in the manor.

Heart pounding, Dick struggles to extricate himself from whatever he’s tangled up in, before giving up and fumbling for the light on his nightstand instead. Turning it on, he squints against the brightness until his bedroom comes into view. He’s sitting on the floor, his blankets twisted around him.

A nightmare. It was just a nightmare.

Dick lets out a wobbly breath, finally managing to pull the blankets off. He stumbles to his feet and promptly sits on the bed, his knees too weak to hold him.

 _It was just a nightmare,_ he reminds himself, trying to shake off the fear and panic jittering through him. But his hands won’t stop shaking and his heart is rattling painfully in his chest. Jeez, what is _wrong_ with him? It was just a dream. 

“Get a grip,” he mutters, wrapping an arm around himself. His ribs are throbbing. He must have hit them when he fell. 

Staring at the wall, Dick breathes in and out. He feels awful: nauseous, shaky, agitated, and soaked in terror. It’s like he’s been doused in fear gas, his brain still screaming that the threat is real.

Except Dick _knows_ it isn’t. He’s not hallucinating. Now that he’s awake, he knows there’s no one there, that there’s nothing to be scared of, so why can’t he make himself believe it? It’s not rational. 

But then, terror never is. Terror is something that chews you up and spits you out, leaving you strung out and wrong. 

Trembling and aching for some normality, Dick glances at the clock on his nightstand – almost two a.m. Bruce is probably still on patrol. This is his first night going out as Batman since Dick was rescued. And there’s no way Dick is calling Alfred in here, because he’s been looking really exhausted these last few days. Besides, what would he even say? That he’s scared of a stupid _dream?_

With a dry sob, Dick buries his head in his hands. He’s never really understood just how lonely fear is until now. How is he supposed to explain it when there’s nothing to be afraid of? He knows he’s in the one place in the world where he’s completely protected, but he still doesn’t feel safe. It sounds insane. 

Dick is starting to wonder if maybe he is going crazy. His mind is unpredictable: frightening thoughts and images keep popping up when he least expects them. He’s turning into a prisoner in his own head and it’s making him feel even more alone…because even if he knew how to explain it, who would he tell? Batman doesn’t understand fear, and everyone else just seems to think that he’s lucky. The doctors, the police, the media – they all keep saying that he’s lucky. Lucky to have survived, lucky there was no permanent injury, lucky to have been rescued…

Dick doesn’t feel lucky. 

Dropping his hands back into his lap, he sighs. There’s no chance of going back to sleep now. But how’s he supposed to pass the hours until morning? He doesn’t feel like reading or watching TV. 

But maybe…maybe if Bruce hears the TV he’ll come in to check on Dick when he returns? 

Dick knows it’s selfish – Bruce has been on patrol for half the night, _and_ he’s working in the morning – but he can’t help it. He desperately wants some company. He wants the bad feelings to go away. He wants someone to tell him that it’ll be okay, even if Dick doesn’t believe it will be. 

Exhaling shakily, he grabs the TV remote from the nightstand and shuffles back against the headboard. Turning the TV onto some late-night infomercial, he places the remote on the bed and draws his knees up to his chest. Looping his arms around them, he ignores how it makes his ribs throb and stares, unseeing, at the TV. He hates this person he’s turning into, so scared and pathetic all the time. How’s he supposed to be Robin when he’s jumping at every noise he hears and every shadow he sees? This isn’t who he is. Miserable, he rests his forehead on his knees. He wants so badly to get back to normal.

Except he’s forgotten what normal feels like.

oOo

“Just take your time and tell me what you remember,” Captain Gordon says, sliding the Dictaphone across the coffee table towards Dick. “You can stop or take a break at any time, okay?”

Dick nods, staring with dread at the portable recorder. He knows Captain Gordon has put off taking his statement for as long as possible, but Dick still doesn’t feel ready to talk about this. Already his heart is thudding against his ribcage and his hands feel sweaty. Panic swells in his chest and his breathing hitches. 

“Breathe, kiddo,” says Bruce soothingly. “You’re okay. No one is going to hurt you.”

He’s sitting on the couch beside Dick. They’re doing this at the manor to make it easier for him, but Dick doesn’t think it’s going to help. Not when he feels like this before he’s even _started_ talking.

Dick looks down at where his fingers are twisting his sweatshirt, the splinted ones sticking out. They look ridiculous and he forces himself to stop fiddling. “What…what did you want me to say again?”

Captain Gordon has already told him, but Dick can’t remember. He’s finding it impossible to focus on anything other than his panic right now.

“Just tell me what happened in your own words,” replies the police captain. “You don’t have to go into detail about what he did to you, just the basics. If you can remember anything he said about the other boys, that would be helpful as well.”

Of course, the other boys. That’s why they’re doing this now. The police need evidence to connect him to the other boys for trial. The man is going to be punished for their murders. Dick scrunches his eyes closed and bites his lip, anger and hurt diluting his panic. It feels like no one cares about what that man did to him because he survived. Nobody cares about Dick Grayson, not really. It’s the fact that he’s Bruce’s son they all care about.

Guilt floods him instantly for the selfish thought. Dick knows how those boys felt before they died. He knows what their deaths _felt_ like. Those boys aren’t here to speak for themselves, so he has to do it for them.

“Dick?”

Bruce’s voice is soft, and Dick glances up at his guardian. “Sorry. I just…this is harder than I thought it would be.”

“We can do it another time if you don’t feel ready?” Captain Gordon offers gently.

Dick looks at him. The officer’s face is lined with pity and concern. He’s _worried_ about Dick. 

Something wobbles inside of him and Dick feels like he might cry. Captain Gordon cares. The police captain doesn’t have to do something as menial as taking his statement, but he’s come all the way out here to Wayne Manor just so Dick will have a familiar face. The officer is even willing to delay the investigation for Dick’s sake. 

And Dick desperately wants to take him up on his offer. He’s not ready to relive that horror and pain. But he also knows that not having his statement is impeding the investigation. They only have evidence to connect the man to Dick and Daniel Martin. They need Dick’s help to connect him to the others. 

Dick thinks of Gavin Field’s mother crying on the television just a few days ago. She thought no one had cared about her or her son when he was murdered, and Dick understands how that feels. Except… 

He glances at Bruce and Captain Gordon. There are people who care. They may not understand, but at least they care. Gavin Field’s mother deserves to know that too. 

Dick takes a shaky breath. “No. I can do this.”

He wishes his voice wasn’t so brittle, because Bruce and Captain Gordon don’t look like they believe him. 

“Dick, are you sure?” probes Bruce. 

Dick nods, trying to ignore the panic that’s still bubbling. He can do this. He _can._

“Okay,” says Captain Gordon, “just take your time. We can stop anytime you need to.”

Dick nods again, staring at the Dictaphone, his mouth dry. He’s not sure where to start.

“Why don’t you start with the last thing you remember at the charity ball?” the officer suggests after a minute.

Dick licks his lips. “I went to the bathroom. I was washing my hands and…that’s all I remember until I woke up in the cage. There was tape around my eyes and something around my neck. And then…then the man came.”

His fingers are twisting the sweatshirt again. “He opened the cage and I tried to fight him, but he hit me and got me on the ground. He tied my hands and took the thing off my neck. He…uh, he got on top of me and told me to beg. And then…then…he p-put his hands around my neck.”

Dick breathes out, trying not to let the memories overwhelm him. “He strangled me,” comes out in a rush, “over and over. He kept telling me to beg.”

And now the man’s voice is in his ear, ordering him to beg for his life. His breathing becomes more rapid and he grabs the glass of water in front of him, taking a long drink. Putting a hand against his forehead, Dick tries to get his breathing under control. He just needs to remember that he’s safe. No one is going to hurt him here.

“Dick?” Bruce’s voice has a distinct edge to it. 

Dick glances at him. His guardian has that tight, controlled expression that means he’s hiding his anger.

“I’m fine.” Dick exhales and puts the water back on the table. “I passed out. When I woke up again, I was back in the cage. I couldn’t hear anything so I tried to take the tape off. That’s when he screamed at me. Told me he’d break my fingers if I touched the tape.”

Without meaning to, Dick glances at his fingers. “He opened the cage and I tried fighting again, but…he was just so _big_. The next thing I knew, I was on the ground. He told me he’d kill me if I was too much trouble. So, I…I stopped struggling.”

Dick sinks into the couch in misery. Talking about this makes him feel like he should have fought harder, like he should have been able to escape. Why had he been so pathetic?

“Dick?” Bruce’s voice sounds again and this time it’s concerned. 

Dick looks up to find both adults watching him warily. He fights the urge to run. “Sorry. He, uh…he gave me water, then he took me to use the bathroom. When I realized he was going to…hurt me again, I kicked him. I managed to knock him over.” His voice drops to a whisper. “He got so _angry_.” 

The panic is starting to hurt now. He’s coming to the belt. “He said…he told me the other boys didn’t give him that much trouble. It was the first time he mentioned them, but I didn’t get time to think about it because h-he…”

Dick hugs his arms closer around himself, exhales, then counts to ten in his head. He feels dangerously close to flipping out. “He took my belt off. I thought…I thought he was going to–” Dick chokes, shaking hard. 

“Do you need a break?” asks Gordon softly.

Dick shakes his head. If he stops now, he’s not sure he’ll be able to start again. “He wasn’t doing…that. He said he was making me sorry. Then he put the belt around my neck an–and–” 

His breathing warps into rapid, shallow breaths and Dick feels like he can’t get enough air. 

Then suddenly, Bruce is on his knees in front of him. “Breathe, Dick, just breathe. You’re okay, shhhhh.” 

Dick lets out several shuddering breaths. This is stupid! _He’s_ being stupid. _Get a grip!_ he tells himself. _You’re fine. There’s nothing wrong, so just stop!_

It takes a few minutes, but he forces his breathing back to normal. His unbroken fingers are digging into his sides. Dick peels them out and shakes them, before looking at Bruce. The man’s face is marred with stress. 

“Sorry,” he mutters.

“You have nothing to apologize for,” says Bruce softly. “Why don’t we take a break, huh?”

“No!” Dick is frustrated. He can do this. He’s Robin the Boy Wonder. He can _do_ this! “Just…give me a minute.”

He exhales, reminding himself there’s nothing to be scared of. The man is in prison and Dick is safe in the manor. He breathes in and out repeatedly, forcing himself to calm down. The sooner he gets this over with, the sooner he _never_ has to talk about it again.

_Knock it off! You’re fine, just telling them what happened. Stop being such a wuss, you can do this._

After several minutes, Dick lets out a long breath, then looks at Captain Gordon. He doesn’t trust himself to look at Bruce. “After he put the belt around my neck, he strangled me with it. It…it really hurt and he kept telling me to beg. But I– I couldn’t talk when I couldn’t breathe.”

Dick ignores the fluttering in his chest, forcing himself to keep going. “I almost passed out before he stopped. Then he did it again – strangled me with the belt until I nearly blacked out. He did it over and over.” He gulps. “I thought…I was sure he was going to kill me.”

Dick looks away from the police captain because he’s doing a lousy job of hiding his horror. He can’t see Bruce’s face because he’s once more sitting beside him, but Dick knows he’s angry. He can hear him cracking his knuckles and grinding his teeth.

He fixes his gaze on the mirror over the fireplace. It’s easier than looking at either of the men and it makes Dick feel weirdly calmer, almost like he’s not telling it to anyone, as if not telling it to anyone makes it not quite real. “I don’t know how long it went on for, but…it was a long time. When he was finished, he put me in the cage, put a collar on me and drugged me.”

“He wasn’t there the next time I woke up,” Dick continues quietly, “so I got the collar off and tried getting the tape off. But he came back and got angry. I tried hitting him with the collar because it was metal, but he hit me in the face with it. Then he broke my fingers. Told me he’d break the rest of them if I tried to take the tape off again.”

He reaches for the glass of water. This is the most he’s talked since he was abducted, and it’s making his throat hurt. He takes a long drink before staring into the glass. “He gave me water and took me to use the bathroom. I didn’t want to, but he made me. Said he didn’t want me to…” his cheeks burn in humiliation, “…to wet myself like some of the others.”

“Did he tell you what he meant by that?” asks Captain Gordon.

“No.” Dick sloshes water around the glass, continuing to stare into it. “After that, he brought me back out. I knew what was coming and tried to fight him, but…he got really violent. He– he hurt m-me so bad that I…it was the last time I fought back.”

Dick rubs his eyes with one hand. He feels so worn out. “Hurting me was…nearly always the same after that. He would give me water, take me to the bathroom and then strangle me. Mostly he used his hands, but sometimes he used the belt. He usually drugged me when it was over.”

“Can you remember how many times he hurt you?” Captain Gordon’s voice is softer than Dick ever remembers hearing.

He shakes his head. “I lost track of time after a while, but maybe…eleven? Twelve? I’m not sure.”

“You said it was nearly always the same when he hurt you,” Captain Gordon comments, still in that soft voice. “Can you tell me about the times it was different?”

Memories crowd Dick’s head and his hands are trembling. “Those were…he was different twice. The first time started out like always – water, bathroom, strangle me. But after a few minutes he stopped.” 

Panic is scratching under his skin again and Dick does his best to ignore it. “Hurting me usually went on for a while. But this time, he– he’d barely started. And he was so quiet. He was never quiet. Usually he was yelling at me to beg…”

Dick takes another drink. His throat feels dry, sore and tight. “I didn’t know what was happening – he said nothing for ages and I was too afraid to move. Finally, he said…he said that h-he was going to k-kill me, and I’d know it was my time to die when he took the tape off. H-he said he would be the l-last thing I’d see.” 

His hands are shaking so badly he nearly drops the glass. Putting it on the table, Dick hugs his arms around himself and stares at his feet. “He told me that…that killing was the greatest high in the world and that…that nothing felt better than someone’s last breath. He–” 

Dick nearly chokes on his panic when he hears the man’s voice in his ear. It makes him jerk and he has to remind himself that the man isn’t there.

“Do you need a break?” asks Captain Gordon gently.

Dick shakes his head but doesn’t look up. “No. I just…I just want to get this over with.”

“If you’re sure,” says Gordon, though he sounds _un_ sure. “What else did he say?”

“He told me…he said he’d k-killed before, that he’d strangled other boys like me. I mean, I’d kind of guessed but–” Dick swallows down a sob. “I didn’t find out how _many_ until after…”

He’s started to rock, ever so slightly. Dick knows how it must look, but he can’t help himself. It feels like he’s running on fumes. “He mentioned the other boys a lot after that, kept asking me if I was ready to end up like them and wondering if I would take as l-long to…to die as some of them…” Dick shudders. “A few times he asked me I was ready to take the tape off. I think…I think he was waiting for me to beg him to k-kill me.”

A flash of anger cuts through the panic and Dick clenches his good hand. “I wasn’t giving him that.”

He can hear his voice fading, losing strength. It’s not going to last much longer. He presses on quickly. “The other time things were different was…later. I know that because…I w-wasn’t able to stand up. He had to carry me to the bathroom.”

Dick closes his eyes, then promptly opens them when memories threaten to overwhelm him. “I kept drifting in and out towards the end. It was h-harder…I wasn’t able to do what he wanted. So, when he brought me to the bathroom and I couldn’t…g-go, he lost it. Completely lost it. He threw me into a wall.”

His voice breaks and Dick reaches for the glass again. He gulps down some water, the glass nearly slipping from his trembling fingers. He feels light-headed, shaky, barely able to breathe. Panic is rushing through him; jittering, screaming, roaring… Dick thinks he’s going to be sick.

“Dick?”

Bruce’s voice. He’s taking the glass from Dick’s hand, but Dick doesn’t dare look up. He’s trying to get a grip on himself long enough to finish this.

“Dick?” Bruce asks again.

Shaking violently, like a machine on overload about to fly apart, Dick sucks in a breath. He’s so close! He just needs to– crap! What is the matter with him?! This is ridiculous! He’s being stupid! 

Dick slams his hands down on the coffee table, ignoring the pain it causes his broken fingers. He wants to scream in frustration. _Oh, come on! You’re just telling a story, it’s not a big deal. Pull it together._

Exhaling violently through clenched teeth, Dick grips the coffee table. “Aft–” he chokes, then swallows twice to clear his throat. He’s going to do this. He has to. “After he threw me into the wall, he…he started hitting me. And he kept s-screaming at me to…go. He sa– he said he’d kill m-me if I we-wet myself and…and…”

He’s breathing hard, pulse racing and head pounding. Images are pushing inside his head, bursting to escape. “He sa-said it wouldn’t be…quick, that he’d make me s-suffer like the rest of them who wet themselves. So, I…I…” Dick’s voice drops to a whisper, “I told him to go to h-hell.” 

The stupidity of that moment still haunts Dick. Why had he provoked him? He’d known provoking the man would mean worse pain, so what had possessed him to say something so stupid? It was as good as asking for it. Ashamed, Dick closes his eyes. 

Instantly, his head explodes, violent sensations erupting around him. There’s a hand around his neck, squeezing hard and battering his head into the wall. Someone is screaming at him, shaking him violently. He can’t breathe. The world is spinning and he’s choking on panic and terror.

He’s going to die here. Batman’s not coming. He’s going to die. 

And Dick doesn’t even care. He just wants this hell to be over. He can’t take it anymore. He can’t. It’s excruciating, terrifying agony and he wants it to end. He wants it to _end!_

Dick coughs, gags and chokes, fighting for breath even though he’s ready to give up. Why is he fighting? He’s going to die anyway, better to die now than suffer anymore.

“Dick! Dick!”

More screaming. Dick whimpers. _Kill me now, just kill me._

“DICK!”

Someone is shaking him, but Dick doesn’t fight it. What’s the point?

“DICK! C’mon, kiddo, _please!_ ”

A voice is shouting. But it’s not angry, it’s desperate. And…familiar?

The hand around his neck that was bashing him into a wall is gone. Dick breathes out. 

Wait, he can breathe?

Then he realizes there’s no pain anymore, but someone is still shaking him. “You’re safe, Dickie, you’re safe. C’mon, kiddo, listen to my voice, please?”

Dick knows that voice. That voice means safety. But it can’t be true. He’s not safe, no one is coming to save him… Right?

“That’s it, good boy, just breathe. Shhhhhhh.”

Dick whimpers. It’s not real…Batman isn’t coming…he’s supposed to die…

“You’re okay, kiddo, it’s okay. You’re safe. Come on now.” 

The voice is quiet, soft. It’s not screaming at him…no one is hurting him. Dick blinks over and over until, suddenly, Bruce is on his knees in front of him, holding onto Dick’s upper arms, a frantic expression on his face.

“B-Bruce?” he croaks.

“Oh, thank fuck!” Bruce yanks him into a tight hug.

Bruce. It’s really Bruce. Dick almost collapses with relief. 

“Bruce…” he breathes, trembling against his guardian’s shoulder. 

“I’m here, kiddo,” says Bruce, rubbing his back.

Dick isn’t sure what’s happening until sees Captain Gordon standing a few feet away, a look of absolute horror on his face. Alfred is right behind him, his face tight with concern.

His heart sinks with realization. He’d flipped out again. 

Dick scrubs at his face miserably. What is wrong with him? Why is he losing it like this? All he’d been doing was giving a statement… Then he remembers the flashback.

Dick’s eyes widen and he jerks back from Bruce. He’d given up! He’d been ready for that man to kill him. He, Robin the Boy Wonder, had given up.

“Dick?” says Bruce, his face tight with anxiety and concern.

Dick shakes his head, backing up a little. He’d given up. He’d given up! How could he have done that? How could he have wanted to _die?!_

“Dick?” 

It’s Bruce again. But Dick can’t look him in the eyes. Shaking his head, he glances over at Captain Gordon and Alfred. Something is wobbling in his chest, Horrified, Dick feels his eyes well up. No, no! He can’t do this…not in front of _everyone!_

“Dickie?”

To his utter shame, Dick bursts into tears and promptly buries his face in his hands. Oh, god, why is he _crying?_ He’s not a little kid – just stop crying!

He’s shaking again. An arm slides around his shoulders and pulls him against a broad chest.

“I take it we’re finished here, Captain?” Bruce’s voice rumbles over him.

“We are. Thank you, Mr. Wayne.” There’s a pause before Captain Gordon says, “And thank you, Dick. You were very brave. I’m sorry for making you relive all that.”

Dick doesn’t respond. The captain is wrong; he hadn’t been brave, not at all.

The only thing Dick had been was weak.

oOo

Bruce paces anxiously, his gaze drifting continuously towards the closed door of the den. It’s been almost an hour since Dick went in there with the psychiatrist, and Bruce is surprised he’s lasted this long. The boy hadn’t wanted to talk to her at all.

But Bruce had insisted. Dick’s breakdown while giving his statement had been terrifying. He had completely shut down, jerking violently like someone having a seizure, while he choked and gasped for air. It had taken Bruce three full minutes to coax him back to reality. And Dick’s not talking, so Bruce isn’t sure if they’re flashbacks or panic attacks yet. Whatever they are, they’re getting out of control. And judging by Dick’s screams at night, the nightmares are as well.

Dick needs help.

Bruce drifts nearer the den. He hadn’t planned on making an appointment with the psychiatrist until Dick’s injuries had fully healed. However, after watching him struggle just to give his statement before collapsing into his own terror, Bruce had realized that wasn’t an option.

Too bad Dick doesn’t see it that way.

Bruce sighs. Dick had thrown an _actual_ tantrum and screamed himself hoarse when he told him about the psychiatrist yesterday. It had been a shocking scene, almost as disturbing as witnessing Dick’s flashbacks. The boy’s emotions are spinning out of control, veering unpredictably between extremes of anger, fear and apathy, and he’s clearly struggling to deal with them.

Not that Bruce is doing much better. He doesn’t know how to help Dick. Everything he says seems to anger or hurt the boy. He just prays the psychiatrist can help. 

“Master Bruce, come away from that door!”

Bruce’s head turns at the hissed voice to find Alfred standing by the living room, wearing _that_ look.

He grimaces and walks over to him. The butler has cleared him into the living room twice already, but Bruce is too on edge to stay there.

Still wearing a severe look, Alfred points into the living room and Bruce enters, the butler following after him. It’s times like this that he wonders just who the master of this house really is.

“Honestly, Master Bruce,” Alfred scolds in a low voice, “you of all people should be capable of sitting in this room until Master Dick has finished his session. It’s going to be hard enough for him to talk about this without knowing that you are hovering right outside that door!”

“I know, Alfred. I just…I’m worried about him.”

The butler sighs. “I know you are, sir – I am too. But you must exercise patience if you are to help him. I fear it’s going to be a very long road to recovery for Master Dick.”

Bruce clenches a fist. That’s exactly what he’s afraid of too.

Just then, a door opens and they hear voices. Bruce manages to restrain himself from hurrying out, and carefully strolls into the hall instead. His gaze goes immediately to Dick.

The boy looks tired, his shoulders slumped and eyes exhausted – the lack of sleep is getting more obvious as the bruising around them fades. But he looks calm, and Bruce unclenches a little. He’d been expecting another panic attack or shut down.

He glances at the psychiatrist. Melissa Carter is considered one of the best in the country for dealing with traumatized children, and it looks like she might just live up to that reputation. 

Bruce is anxious to speak with her, but reigns in his questions for Dick’s sake. He smiles down at the boy. “Well, kiddo, how’d it go?”

Dick gives him a disparaging look.

Bruce hides a wince. Still not talking to him then. 

“We had an interesting chat,” Melissa answers. “Although I’m not sure I’ll ever look at zombies the same way again.”

Dick shoots her a small smile that Bruce almost misses when his head jerks up to stare at the psychiatrist. Zombies? Maybe he’d been a bit too hasty in complimenting her abilities.

“Dr. Carter, may I offer you some tea or coffee?” Alfred addresses her politely. 

She shakes her head. “No, thank you, Mr. Pennyworth. But I would like a quick word with Mr. Wayne before I leave?” Her eyes slide over to look at Bruce.

“Let’s talk in my study,” Bruce suggests, struggling a little to keep his voice even. He’d brought her out here to help Dick, why the hell had they been talking about zombies?!

“Master Dick, come with me,” Alfred requests gently. “Your lunch is ready in the kitchen.”

The instant slump of the boy’s shoulders is obvious to everyone, but he follows Alfred without a word.

Practically bursting, Bruce leads the way to his study and barely manages to close the door before exploding at the psychiatrist, “ _Zombies?!_ ”

Her expression is completely calm. “Yes, Mr. Wayne, zombies.”

Bruce points to one of the armchairs before dropping into the other. Crossing his arms, he states icily, “I brought you here to help my son. Please explain how talking about zombies does that?”

“Dick was visibly wound up and upset at the beginning of session. Neutral topics allowed him to relax, and made him more comfortable opening up to me.”

“So, he did open up to you?”

“Only about his hobbies and favourite TV shows.”

“ _What?!_ That’s not–”

Melissa holds a finger up. “Before you get any angrier, Mr. Wayne, let me ask you this: other than his statement, how has Dick reacted when he’s been asked to talk about his ordeal?”

“He–” Bruce blinks, then sighs. “He’s either shut down or had some kind of panic attack.”

“Exactly. And if Dick isn’t ready to talk about what happened with you, someone he trusts, then he certainly won’t talk with a complete stranger about it. He needs to learn to trust me first.”

“And how long is that going to take?” 

“That depends on the child. Some of the children I’ve worked with have needed at least six months of trust building before they were ready to discuss the traumatic event.”

“Six months?!” repeats Bruce, appalled. “But…Dick needs help now!”

“You’re right, he does, but that doesn’t mean he’s ready to talk about what happened to him. When dealing with traumatized children, it’s best to let them instigate the discussion when they feel ready. Unlike adults, verbalizing the details is not necessarily cathartic for children. Pressing too soon or too hard for details can cause the child to shut down, or even trigger a stress episode that could result in dissociation from the present.”

“Dick’s statement,” Bruce whispers, feeling his heart sink. 

She nods. “Once you told me what happened while he was giving his statement, I guessed he wouldn’t want to talk about it in session. So, I let him lead the discussion. He relaxed once he realized I wasn’t going to press him on his ordeal.”

Guilt is gnawing at Bruce. “I thought giving his statement would help him. He wasn’t talking and– shit! Did we cause any harm by making him talk about it?”

“I can’t answer that,” Melissa replies seriously. “Today is the first time I’ve seen Dick, so I can’t comment on his frame of mind before he gave his statement.”

“Then what about his frame of mind _now?_ ” demands Bruce in frustration. “Surely you have some idea about what’s going on?”

“It’s too early to make a diagnosis.”

“Bullshit,” says Bruce brusquely. “What about those questionnaires you had Alfred and I fill out yesterday? Two of them were PTSD measures. I did a lot of reading last night, Dr. Carter; Dick’s symptoms are characteristic of PTSD.” 

She sighs. “You’re right. Dick’s symptoms are characteristic of PTSD. However, when I said it’s too early to make a diagnosis, I meant that literally. To diagnose PTSD, a patient must have the required symptoms for at least one month – Dick was only rescued three weeks ago.”

“Are you telling me you won’t diagnose him because it hasn’t been _long_ enough?! He has all the symptoms!”

“I’m not doubting that. But some people experience very severe symptoms that go away after a few weeks. This is called acute stress disorder and–”

“I don’t care what it’s called,” Bruce interrupts. “Dick’s symptoms aren’t going away, they’re getting _worse_.”

“You misunderstand me, Mr. Wayne. I’m not saying his symptoms will go away. But because acute stress disorder has such strong similarities to PTSD, the DSM requires symptoms to be present for more than a month before diagnosing PTSD – that’s why I can’t yet diagnose Dick with PTSD.”

Bruce narrows his eyes at her. “So, you think he does have PTSD.”

“From what you’ve told me and from what the diagnostic measures I had yourself and Mr. Pennyworth fill out, it does look that way. However, while the re-experiencing and hyperarousal symptoms are very obvious, the avoidance ones are less so.”

“I disagree,” says Bruce bluntly. “Dick isn’t talking about what happened to him and he’s lost interest in things he used to enjoy. From what I read last night, those are avoidance symptoms.”

“But can you answer if he’s _feeling_ any of the avoidance emotions? Numbness, guilt, depression, worry? And he’s not talking about what happened, but is he actively avoiding anything that might remind him of what happened?”

Bruce scowls. “I don’t know.”

“Which is why I need to do further assessment before diagnosing PTSD. Mr. Wayne, I understand your anxiety and the need for a diagnosis – knowing what’s going on might make it easier to help Dick. But we can’t rush this. For Dick’s sake, we have to be cautious and accurate.”

Bruce slumps. “But how am I supposed to help him?”

“Help him to feel safe by letting him know you’re there if he needs you. Stay calm when he’s lashing out. It would also help if you could bring some normality back into his life – I’m assuming Dick is still too weak to return to school?”

“Yes. And even if he wasn’t, I doubt he would be up to the scrutiny. Being my son…” Bruce sighs, “it brings a lot of unwanted attention with it.”

Melissa nods. “I can imagine. But Dick needs some level of normality back in his life. Could you have some friends come and visit him? It doesn’t sound like he’s spoken to any of them since all of this happened.”

“He hasn’t. He was too ill at first, and then his voice wasn’t up for conversation. I was trying to give him more time to heal before letting them visit.”

“I think it’s time to let them visit now. But let them know that he may not want to talk about what happened and not to push him. It might also be helpful to tell them not to touch him unless he instigates contact. I noticed that he needed a lot of personal space during our chat – even though there was a full four feet between us, he leaned back anytime I leaned forward.”

Bruce grimaces. “He does that to us too. He startles really badly if you touch him without warning, and he constantly scans his surroundings to avoid being too near people.”

“It’s called hypervigilance,” Melissa explains. “The persistent feeling of being under threat.”

 _Meaning Dick doesn’t even feel safe in his own home._ Clenching his jaw and shaking his head, Bruce feels a surge of rage. That goddamn bastard Johnson! Bruce wants to make him hurt so fucking badly for what he’s done to his son. 

“What’s your next step?” he asks the psychiatrist.

“I’d like to see Dick twice a week for the next couple of weeks. Once I’ve built a rapport with him, I’ll have him fill out some of the trauma measures to assess his symptoms. After I’ve made a diagnosis, we can make a decision on treatment.”

“Okay. What day will we set the next appointment for?”

“Let me check…” She takes out a diary and leaves through it before responding. “I’m free this Friday afternoon at three. Usually I’d have the client come to my office, but I believe it might be best to come here for the first few appointments. We can revisit Dick coming to my office once he’s more comfortable around me, if that’s acceptable to you, Mr. Wayne?”

“It is,” he replies, grateful for her consideration. Taking Dick out of the manor with the all media hype at the moment would be a nightmare for the boy. “Thank you, Dr. Carter.”

She gives him a smile that brushes the edges of pity. Bruce suspects it’s meant to be comforting, a gesture used with countless parents over the years, but it does nothing to soothe the worry gnawing on his gut.

Because if Dick doesn’t even feel safe with Batman here to protect him, how on earth is Bruce supposed to help him feel safe again?


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man, I wish Ao3 would update it's system so that chapters can be posted without having to go through the whole rigmarole of putting in codes for italics and spaces. Total pain.
> 
> Anyway, thanks to everyone who left kudos or commented on the last chapter. Much appreciate it. :)

Dick drags himself up from where he’s lying on the bed when he hears the doorbell go off. 

Barry and Wally are here.

He’s not sure how he feels about this visit. On the one hand, he’s looking forward to seeing Wally. He hasn’t seen his best friend in more than a month and he’s missed him. Wally is warm, loyal and fun, and can make Dick laugh harder than anyone he knows. One time, Dick had laughed so hard he gave himself a nosebleed in front of half the League! Batman had not been impressed. 

But the other part of Dick, the part that’s being honest with himself, is dreading having to spend time with someone whose _lowest_ noise level is set significantly higher than most people’s _loudest_ setting. 

Because Dick is shattered. Worn. His nerves feel utterly strung out and he doesn’t know if he’s up for Wally’s energy. He feels guilty for thinking that way about his best friend, but he can’t control it – he can’t control anything at the moment.

Shoving his hands into his sweatshirt pockets, Dick shuffles towards the corridor and heads for the stairs, ignoring how his heart picks up speed. It always feels like it’s beating too fast these days anyway.

He reaches the top of the stairs and can hear Bruce’s voice murmuring in the hallway, pieces of what he’s saying floating up to Dick.

“…apathetic…take it…remember not to…”

Dick realizes he’s giving Wally instructions on how to handle Dick, and feels a surge of annoyance. He’s so freaking tired of Bruce treating him like fragile china…why can’t he treat him like _Dick_ instead?

He reaches the top of the stairs and sees Bruce, Alfred, Barry and Wally gathered in the hall by the door. They stop speaking the instant they spot him.

Dick snorts and resists the urge to roll his eyes. If it were any more obvious they were talking about him they’d be holding signs!

He descends, feeling a prickle of fear that screams ‘run!’ when they all continue to watch him. _Knock it off!_ he tells himself irritably. He’s so over this crap: the people who care about him aren’t going to hurt him.

“Hey, kiddo,” Barry greets in an overly cheerful voice as he draws near. “It’s good to see you. How are you feeling?”

Stopping a few feet from them, Dick stares at Barry and shrugs his shoulders. He really hates that question because how the heck is he supposed to answer? _Obviously_ he’s not feeling okay, but it’s not like he can actually come out and _say_ that without upsetting everyone or making this weirder than it already is. 

Because Dick hates the weirdness. Bruce has some odd mix of coiled tension and fake cheer on his face that practically makes him look constipated, while Barry’s smile is stretched so wide he looks a little insane. Even Alfred’s carefully neutral expression is slipping a little. And Wally… Wally is just _gawping_ at Dick like he’s turned purple or something.

Dick scowls and shoves his hands deeper into his pockets, making the sweatshirt pooch. Why is Wally staring at him like that? Okay, maybe his neck still looks a little mangled, but the bruises on his face are almost gone and there’s only a few spots of red left in his eyes. If Bruce gave Wally even half the lecture Dick suspects he did, then the other boy should know better than to stare. 

Barry nudges Wally and the teenager snaps his mouth shut. “Uh…hey, dude…um…how’s it going?”

Dick shrugs again because come on! How is he supposed to answer that?!

An awkward silence falls for several seconds until Barry nudges his nephew. “Wally, didn’t you bring something for Dick?” 

“Oh, yeah!” Wally brightens and pulls a disc case from his pocket. “War Damage, part three,” he announces, waving it happily. “Doesn’t come out until Monday, but one of my uncles works at the company that makes it and he was able to sneak me an early copy. I haven’t played it yet but I’m still totally gonna kick your butt, dude.”

Wally beams and Dick feels…lighter. A video game. This is normal. The kind of normal Dick hasn’t seen in weeks. He feels a small smile pull at his face. “Big talk from the guy who’s never actually beaten me at War Damage.”

His voice is still brittle, not his, and Dick sees Wally’s smile waver at the sound of it, but the speedster manages to snort. “Pffft. I’ve got mad skills you haven’t seen yet.”

Dick laughs for the first since this whole nightmare started. “Bring it on.”

“Why don’t you boys take the game to Master Dick’s room?” Alfred suggests, a smile unfolding on his face. “I shall bring you up some snacks.”

“Okay. Thanks, Alfred,” says Dick. “C’mon, Wally.”

The older boy follows him up the stairs. Dick can feel three sets of adult eyes following them the whole way. He guesses Wally is aware of their staring as well because he glances back at them before hissing, “Dude, remember that girl I told you about? Sharon Kapinsky?”

Dick can’t believe he’d been worried about this; he loves how normal it feels. “The one in your class that looks like Selina Gomez? The girl you can’t open your mouth without declaring undying love for?”

Wally waves a hand. “Yeah, her. Anyway, _she kissed me!_ ”

“What! I thought she told you she’d rather eat dirt than share the same airspace as you?”

“That was before she got a taste of these moves,” Wally says, performing some odd little dance and promptly tripping over his own feet. 

Dick snorts. “Yeah, I can see why.”

“Dude, you’re just jealous ‘cause I’ve got game.”

“Only if you count the one you’re holding.”

“Hey!” 

Dick grins. “Seriously, man, why’d she kiss you?”

Wally wilts a little. “We, uh…might have been playing spin the bottle.”

“Wally–”

“It still counts! It’s still a kiss! Besides, now that she’s had a taste of the Wall-man, she’s totally gonna want more.”

Dick cocks a disbelieving eyebrow. “ _Wall-man?_ ”

“My new nickname.”

“Wally, you can’t give yourself a nickname,” Dick points out as they enter his bedroom. 

“How do you know I gave it to myself?”

Dick just stares at him and Wally sighs. “Alright, fine. I may have come up with the name. But all I need is for it to catch on. Isn’t that how all nicknames work?”

“You mean like Flash Boy?” Dick teases. Wally is touchy about the fact no one can ever remember Kid Flash’s proper name.

“Dude, low blow.”

“More like the truth hurts. Game,” Dick adds, holding out his hand. 

While he sets up the computer, Wally prattles about his upcoming science fair and Dick drinks it all in. This is awesome. This feels easy and normal. _Dick_ feels normal. For the first time in weeks, the awful fear and anxiety pressing on him lifts a little. It gives Dick hope that he can have his life back again.

They spend the next two hours immersed in Wally’s game, talking about movies, comics and Roy’s latest spat with Ollie. Alfred brings them a selection of snacks that Wally goes into paroxysms of joy over. Even Dick’s appetite makes an appearance. 

It’s all going perfectly until Dick brings down Wally’s main army base. Wally groans dramatically, socking him in the arm…and the next thing Dick knows, he’s standing against the wall, gasping for air, while Wally lies flat on his back, clutching his bleeding lip and staring up at Dick in shock. 

“Dude,” Wally whispers, “are you…are you okay?”

Dick tries to answer him, but his chest tightens and heaves. His heart is pounding and he can feel panic jittering through him, making him tremble. _Nonononononononononono!_ he thinks, afraid that he’s going to flip out and lose it here in front of Wally. He needs to reel it in. He needs to get a grip on himself.

 _You’re fine, you’re fine_ , he reminds himself, pressing one hand to his chest as he tries to get his breathing under control.

“Dick?” Wally’s voice is uncertain. 

The older boy gets to his feet and Dick feels a sharp burst of panic as he comes towards him. Pressing himself into the wall, he holds one hand out and shakes his head. _Don’t come near me!_

Wally halts, his face scared. “D-do you want me to get Bruce?”

Dick shakes his head again and sucks in a breath. “No. Just…g-give me…a minute…” 

_Come on, get a grip. Please don’t freak out._

Dick hates himself. He hates himself so much. What is wrong with him? It’s Wally, his best friend in the whole world. Wally isn’t going to hurt him. Bruce isn’t going to hurt him. Nobody who cares about him is going to hurt him! Why is he being so pathetic? How did he become this weak and scared all the time?

Blood rushes to his head as he breathes deeply, darkening his sight. Dick closes his eyes. _You’re fine, you’re safe, you’re fine._ Dick despises that the words have become a mantra for him.

Gradually, his breathing slows and he manages to get his thundering panic back under control. Still shaking, Dick opens his eyes. Unable to meet Wally’s gaze, he looks at the floor. “Sorry,” he whispers.

“Dude, don’t…you don’t need to apologize. Are you…okay?”

“Fine,” Dick lies, still staring at the floor.

An awkward silence falls. 

“Um…you wanna…maybe…t-talk about it?” Wally offers.

Dick shakes his head. Nope. Definitely not.

“Okay. Uh…um…” 

He can hear Wally shuffling his feet but still doesn’t look up. Shame is burning hot in his gut – Dick can’t believe he lost it over nothing. _Again._

“So…you…uh…you wanna keep playing or do you wanna…I dunno, do something else?” Wally’s voice is tentative and uncertain.

Dick winces. “Let’s just…keep playing.”

They return to the game, but it isn’t the same. Their conversation is awkward, stilted, and Wally seems to be hyperaware of his every move towards Dick, which only puts Dick more on edge. 

When the time comes for Wally to leave, Dick is feeling even worse than he did before Wally arrived – it was his overreaction that ruined the afternoon. _He’s_ the one who’s ruining everything.

Wally spins some elaborate story about kung-fu moves and crashing into a wall to explain his busted lip to Barry and Bruce, but Dick can see that they don’t really believe it. Bruce’s lips are tight and pursed, while Barry shoots Dick a small glance of concern.

Dick doesn’t know if the concern is for him, or because he busted up his nephew’s lip without meaning to. Probably the latter. After all, why would anyone want a loose cannon like him around someone they care about?

Dick watches the speedsters leave and feels the hope that was budding in his chest all afternoon die.

oOo

Dick awakes to the sound of _drip, drip, drip_. It tugs at something deep inside him.

Rubbing his eyes, he sits up and glances around his room – he’s been sleeping with the light on for a while now – but he can’t see anything that would indicate water. Then his sleep-muddled brain makes the connection: it’s raining. 

Dick blinks at the windows. It’s the first time it’s rained since he was rescued; an anomaly for Gotham, where wet and grey are almost permanent residents. 

Sighing irritably, Dick lies back down and yanks the covers over his head. It barely muffles the sound of rain pattering against the glass. Dick tries to block it out, but the insidious _drip, drip, drip_ is under his skin, stretching his nerves unbearably. 

Partially wedging his head under the pillow, Dick closes his eyes. He lets out a deep breath and tries to relax.

_Drip, drip, drip._

“Ugh,” Dick growls in frustration, sitting up and scowling at the windows. That sound is setting his teeth on edge.

He grabs his headphones and Ipod from the nightstand. Pushing them into his ears, he lies down again and tries to sleep.

It’s useless. Despite the music playing, he can still hear the _drip, drip, drip_. It’s lodged in his head, scratching deep inside his memory, and slowly filling him with a heavy fear he can’t explain. His heart sweeps into a faster rhythm and panic looms threateningly.

Dick swallows and squeezes his eyes shut, terrified of flipping out. Those flashbacks leave him wrung out and shattered, like he’s just been attacked all over again. He hates and fears them like nothing he’s ever known before.

_Drip, drip, drip._

Nope. No, no. He’s not doing this. He’s not freaking out. Absolutely no way. He’s fine. He’s just going to lie here and wait to go back to sleep–

_Drip, drip, drip._

The sound echoes in his memory and something inside Dick _snaps_. Bolting upright, he screams and hurls his Ipod across the room, where it smashes into the wall. Anger is boiling inside of him, churning up the terror and panic until Dick thinks he’s literally going to explode. All of a sudden, there’s so much pain and anger and fear that it’s tearing him apart. He can’t bear it. It’s too much. 

Dick screams again, lurching out of bed. He needs to move, to get away. His senses are overloading from the sheer volume of feelings. 

_Too much, too much!_ his mind screams at him.

The door opens and a voice calls anxiously, “Dick? Are you alright?”

Bruce. His enormous frame fills the doorway and Dick’s anger is like a bomb going off. With a roar, he runs at Bruce, slamming into him with such force the man staggers. Dick shoves past him into the hall and once out, he _runs._

_Too much, too much!_

Dick can barely breathe, deep gasps catching in his chest as he tries to suck in air. His body is thrumming with so much anxiety and adrenaline that it actually hurts. He needs to get away. 

_Too much, too much!_

Dick can’t bear how much he’s feeling. There’s just too much of _everything!_ It’s filling him up, choking him, suffocating him… He screams again in an effort to release some of it.

A door looms ahead of him and Dick scrabbles at it until it opens. There’s a wailing noise he’s almost certain isn’t coming from him, but his head is pounding so much that he can’t really be sure. 

_Too much, too much!_

Then Dick is running again, trying to escape. There’s a little voice somewhere reminding him he can’t run from himself, but the roar of emotions burning him up is drowning it out. He wants to explode. There’s just too much inside of him to handle and Dick wants it gone. He screams again.

Suddenly, hands grab him.

Dick reacts like he’s Robin, turning and lashing out at the huge figure behind him. He’s tired of feeling weak and pathetic all the time! He’s not going to be a victim again! He punches, kicks, wrestles and thumps at the figure, landing blow after blow. He can hear himself howling with rage.

The _drip, drip, drip_ is now unbearably loud, and Dick can feel water. It’s everywhere, drenching him in icy cold, but he can still feel _everything_ burning him up from the inside: anger, pain, fear and hurt.

_Stop! Stop! Stop! STOP!_

Dick just wants it to stop. All these feelings are tearing him apart.

A voice carries on the _drip, drip, drip,_ and both sounds resonate in Dick’s head until he feels dizzy. He presses his hands against his ears, trying to block it all out. The sensory overload is literally driving him mad.

Panting, shaking, twitching and scared, Dick screws his eyes shut and shakes his head. He’s not crazy. He’s not. He doesn’t want to be crazy. He wants to be normal again, to be Dick again.

“DICK!”

The voice is now louder than the _drip, drip, drip_ and Dick hears it clearly. Then comes a soft, “Come on, kiddo…”

Dick drops his hands and opens his eyes. A face is hovering in front of him. A very familiar face…

“Dick?” says the face.

Bruce.

His guardian is crouched in front of him, almost a foot away, and Dick is just so _tired_ of suddenly finding Bruce crouched in front of him like this, coaxing Dick back to reality with that worried expression on his face.

Except there’s a definite tinge of fear mingled with the worry this time.

The shock momentarily freezes the immense tidal wave of emotions and Dick blinks. Bruce is scared? That…can’t be right. Bruce is _never_ scared.

“You with me, kiddo?” Bruce asks softly.

Dick doesn’t answer. He’s trying to process Bruce’s fear, trying to make sense of– 

_Drip, drip, drip._

He jerks. He can still hear water everywhere. How…?

Dick realizes they’re outside, a third of the way down the manor driveway. It’s dark except for the few splashes of light stretching from the house. Rain is thundering down around them and it’s _freezing._

“Dick. Talk to me, please.”

Bruce’s voice is pleading. Bruce’s voice is never pleading. Dick frowns at him. His guardian is in nothing but a pair of sweatpants, his hair plastered against his head.

“You okay, kiddo?” 

Dick grinds his teeth and clenches his fists. There’s that stupid question again! Of course he’s not okay! It’s so freaking obvious he’s not okay! 

Jittering like he’s been electrocuted, his body stiff with tension, Dick glares at Bruce. Anger and hurt swells in his chest. Bruce is crouching there, staring at Dick like he cares, but where was he when Dick really needed him? Where was Batman? Batman is the World’s Greatest Detective, he should have been able to find Dick!

The rage bursts out of him and Dick yells at Bruce, “Where were you?!”

Bruce blinks, clearly taken aback. “What?”

“All that time he was hurting me, you never came! I waited but you never came!”

Bruce looks horrified. “Dick…”

“Why didn’t you look for me?” Dick cries, and some of the emotions bleed out. It feels good to have a target for all of that pain and anger. “Didn’t you care? Was I not as important as your mission?!”

Bruce gets to his feet and steps towards him. “Dick, of course I looked for you! I–”

“IF YOU LOOKED THEN WHY DIDN’T YOU FIND ME!” Dick screams, punching Bruce.

All the hurt and pain and fear erupts and Dick explodes, swinging his hands and hitting Bruce as hard as he can. “YOU NEVER SAVED ME! YOU NEVER CAME! YOU LEFT ME THERE!”

Dick strikes at Bruce repeatedly, but his guardian doesn’t stop him. “I WAITED FOR YOU! I WAITED! BUT YOU NEVER CAME! YOU JUST LEFT ME THERE!”

Pain flares in his hands as Dick thumps Bruce’s chest. “YOU DIDN’T CARE ABOUT ME! YOU DIDN’T LOOK! YOU LEFT ME THERE! I HATE YOU! I HATE YOU!”

Bruce doesn’t speak or move while Dick attacks him. Every strike, every scream, drains more of the anger and pain until Dick is weak and shaking, hands resting against Bruce. “Why…why didn’t you look?” he whispers.

“I did look,” Bruce tells him quietly. “I looked everywhere. It was the only thing I did while you were missing. I wanted you back so badly, but I couldn’t find you. I’m sorry I failed you, Dick.”

He’s never heard Bruce apologize before. He’s never heard Bruce sound so _desolate_ before. It breaks some of the tight pain coiled around him, and Dick slumps, utterly exhausted. He’s crying, hot tears rolling down his face, and he doesn’t even know when they started. His legs give way and he slides to the ground.

Bruce moves with him, his arms around Dick, rubbing his back. “It’s alright, kiddo, I’ve got you. Just let it out. Let it all out.”

And Dick does. He sobs into his guardian’s chest, his hands over his face. For the first time in weeks, it actually feels _good_ to cry.

oOo

When Bruce hears the scream, he’s running for Dick’s room before he’s even fully awake.

A second scream sounds and then a thump. Bruce jerks and hopes to fuck Dick hasn’t fallen out of bed again – the boy’s ribs are still healing and it’s not good to keep jarring them like this.

He throws open the door and calls, “Dick? Are you alright?”

The boy reacts before Bruce can process anything other than he’s standing beside the bed. Roaring, he runs at Bruce, slamming into him with enough force to make Bruce stagger. With a violent shove, Dick pushes past him and tears down the hall. 

_Shit, what the hell is going on?_ Bruce wonders, steadying himself before taking off after Dick. 

Dick disappears down the stairs and Bruce curses, increasing his speed. The boy is fast, much faster than him.

“Master Bruce, what on earth is going on?” he hears Alfred call from behind him.

Bruce stops and turns to see the older man standing there in his slippers and dressing gown. “It’s Dick,” he explains hurriedly. “I don’t know what’s wrong, but he’s taking off.”

Explanation given, Bruce resumes his pursuit and reaches the top of the stairs just as Dick screams again. He’s scrabbling frantically at the front door. Bruce opens his mouth to call him just as he wrenches the door open. The alarm wails and Dick takes off into the night.

“Fuck!” Bruce cries and sprints down the stairs.

“Go after him!” Alfred calls from behind him. “I’ll take care of the alarm!”

Bruce doesn’t need to be told twice. He dashes across the foyer in bare feet and sweatpants, bolting through the door after Dick. The light from the manor spills into the night and Bruce can just make out Dick’s small shape heading down the drive.

It’s freezing cold and lashing rain as Bruce races after him. The gravel is hard and painful against his feet, but Bruce runs faster than he ever has in his life. Alarm is thundering through him because what the hell is going on?!

Dick stops and screams again, a sound filled with anger and pain. Bruce puts in a massive burst of speed, reaching and grabbing Dick before he can take off once more.

But the boy reacts so quickly it leaves Bruce breathless. He punches, kicks, and wrestles, roaring and snarling like a wild thing. Bruce tries desperately to restrain him, but Dick is like a person possessed – writhing, jerking and clawing desperately. 

Afraid of hurting him, Bruce takes a step back. “Easy, Dick, easy,” he says softly. “It’s just me. Calm down.”

The boy doesn’t hear a word of it. Panting and gasping, he swings frantically at empty air. His eyes are wild yet alert. It doesn’t look like a flashback to Bruce, but Dick clearly isn’t aware of him either.

“Dick,” he calls a little louder. “Come on, kiddo, listen to me. It’s okay, you’re safe.”

But Dick just presses his hands against his ears. He’s trembling and gasping, and the sight of it scares Bruce. Whatever this is, it’s different to anything that’s happened before. 

“Dick,” he tries again, “please calm down.”

Dick just scrunches his eyes closed and shakes his head. He looks like he’s trying to block something out. 

Bruce is beginning to feel a little desperate. The rain is torrential and Dick’s pyjamas are soaked and clinging to him. He’s also shivering hard, making Bruce’s anxiety skyrocket: Dick has barely recovered from the pneumonia – he _needs_ to get him back inside!

“DICK!” he yells, as loudly as he dares. He doesn’t want to spook Dick further.

Dick freezes. Hopeful, Bruce crouches down in front of him, careful not to come too close. “Come on, kiddo…” 

It takes a few seconds, but Dick does drop his hands and opens his eyes. He doesn’t react though, and Bruce feels a small surge of fear. “Dick?”

The child blinks. 

“You with me, kiddo?” Bruce asks, keeping his voice soft.

Dick doesn’t respond for a moment, but then he jerks. He looks confused, his eyes darting around.

“Dick.” Bruce does his best not to raise his voice. “Talk to me, please.”

Dick looks at him and frowns.

“You okay, kiddo?” Bruce tries again.

Anger flashes over Dick’s face. Bruce can see him clenching his fists and grinding his teeth. He’s glaring at Bruce, and Bruce is just about to ask what’s wrong when Dick shouts.

“Where were you?!”

Bruce is confused. “What?”

Dick looks so _angry_. “All that time he was hurting me, you never came! I waited but you never came!”

Bruce feels sick when he realizes what the boy is saying. “Dick…”

But Dick won’t let him speak. “Why didn’t you look for me? Didn’t you care? Was I not as important as your mission?!”

Bruce stands up and moves towards him. “Dick, of course I looked for you! I–”

“IF YOU LOOKED THEN WHY DIDN’T YOU FIND ME!” The punch startles Bruce. Dick has never purposefully hit him outside of training before.

Then suddenly, Dick is thumping Bruce with everything he has. “YOU NEVER SAVED ME!” he screams. “YOU NEVER CAME! YOU LEFT ME THERE!”

The accusation is like a knife in the gut. Guilt at not being able to find Dick has been eating him for weeks, and he often wondered if the boy blamed him. 

It looks like he has that answer as Dick wallops him, tears streaming down his face. “I WAITED FOR YOU! I WAITED! BUT YOU NEVER CAME! YOU JUST LEFT ME THERE!”

Bruce doesn’t try to stop Dick. It’s obvious the boy needs this, and Bruce will take as many punches as necessary if it makes Dick feel better.

“YOU DIDN’T CARE ABOUT ME!” Dick screams, face contorting in pain. “YOU DIDN’T LOOK! YOU LEFT ME THERE! I HATE YOU! I HATE YOU!”

And okay, _that_ hurts, but still Bruce says nothing, just bears up against Dick’s onslaught. He prays the boy doesn’t do any further damage to his fingers or throat, but doesn’t dare stop him. Dick desperately needs this outlet and he’s too weak to rage for long.

Sure enough, within minutes the boy’s punches start to weaken, becoming little more than feeble smacks. Finally, he stops, hands resting against Bruce’s chest. He’s trembling hard and crying as he whispers, “Why…why didn’t you look?” 

Bruce instantly reassures him. “I did look. I looked everywhere. It was the only thing I did while you were missing. I wanted you back so badly, but I couldn’t find you. I’m sorry I failed you, Dick.”

The apology doesn’t even begin to express Bruce’s regret. It will forever remain one of his biggest failures that he didn’t save his own child – that Dick had to suffer at the hands of a monster because Bruce wasn’t good enough.

And then, still crying, Dick slumps. Bruce feels him collapsing and puts his arms around him, sliding to the ground along with him.

“It’s alright, kiddo,” he soothes, hugging the boy and rubbing his back as he sobs into Bruce’s chest. “I’ve got you. Just let it out. Let it all out.”

Dick shudders and chokes against him, shoulders heaving with every sob. Wishing he could do more than offer ineffectual comfort, Bruce pats his back and rocks him. Dick feels so small and thin in his arms…it hurts to think of all the pain he’s carrying. Bruce would give anything to take that pain away, to carry it himself.

Eventually the sobs taper off, but Dick remains slumped against Bruce, making soft, almost hiccupping noises. His breathing is a little jerky but he seems calm. Definitely time to get him in out of this rain.

“Dickie?” Bruce probes gently. “Let’s get you inside the house, okay? You’re soaked through.”

Dick nods, but makes no move to get up, so Bruce carefully lifts him to his feet. Keeping his arm around Dick’s shoulders, he leads him towards the manor.

Alfred greets them at the door with a stack of fluffy towels. His face is laced with concern as he studies Dick, but he wordlessly hands Bruce a towel. He wraps another tightly around Dick before taking one to the boy’s hair and proceeding to dry it. 

“I’ve stoked up the fire in the den,” he tells Bruce. “There are dry pyjamas for both of you in there as well – I want you to change clothes before you catch your death of cold. I’ll fetch some hot chocolate to warm you up.”

“Thanks, Alfred,” says Bruce.

“Off with you now,” the butler orders, handing Bruce the remaining stack of towels before heading for the kitchen. 

“Let’s go, kiddo,” Bruce says softly, shuffling the stack of towels into one hand and using the other to gently guide Dick towards the den. The boy is shivering with cold, and if Bruce is honest, he’s feeling pretty chilled himself.

They enter the den, where Bruce promptly helps Dick to strip out of his soaking wet pyjamas. Once the boy is wrapped in a towel by the fire, Bruce hurriedly removes his own sopping sweatpants, dries himself and puts on the pyjamas Alfred has left out. Throwing on his slippers, he returns to where Dick is staring into the fire, shivering and clutching the towel wrapped around him like it’s a lifeline.

“Alright, Dickie, let’s get you dry,” Bruce tells him.

The boy doesn’t respond, so Bruce rubs his arms briskly through the towel. Dick is like a doll, passively letting Bruce towel him off, and then dress him in the dry pyjamas. It feels odd, given Dick’s age and the fact that he’s usually so independent, but Dick is icy to the touch and Bruce is anxious to get him dry and warm. The last thing he needs is to get pneumonia again.

Bruce has managed to wrangle slippers onto his feet and is kneeling in front of Dick, manoeuvring his arms into a dressing gown when Dick addresses him. “Bruce?”

Bruce focuses on him. “Yes?”

“I’m sorry.”

Bruce frowns. “What for?”

“I don’t hate you. I’m sorry. I don’t know why I said that.”

Bruce is careful not to let the relief show on his face. “I know, Dick. You were just angry and upset. You have nothing to apologize for.”

“But I hit you…” Dick whispers, starting to look upset.

“Oh, hey, no,” says Bruce soothingly. “Don’t do that. You didn’t mean it. You were just scared and upset – it’s normal for someone who’s been through what you’ve been through to lash out.”

“Did I…hurt you?”

“Not even a little,” Bruce reassures him. “What about you? Did you hurt your fingers?”

Dick looks down at his broken fingers. “I don’t think so…”

“Let me see.” Bruce carefully takes the splinted fingers and examines them. “Nothing looks out of place, but we might do an x-ray later just to make sure, okay?”

Dick nods, biting his lip as he stares at Bruce. “I’m– I’m really sorry, Bruce.”

“Hey, hey,” chides Bruce gently, pulling Dick into a hug. “No more apologizing, okay? I know you didn’t mean it.” He grips Dick closer to him and cups the boy’s head, smoothing his hair. “I’m here for you, Dick, you know that, right?”

Dick nods against his shoulder and then Bruce feels thin arms slide around his neck. He’s surprised – Dick hasn’t returned a hug since this whole nightmare started. He squeezes the boy a little harder, mindful of his ribs. “I’m here, kiddo,” he whispers. “Whatever you need, I’m here.”

Dick is still shaking, but Bruce thinks that’s from cold. The boy doesn’t appear to be crying and his breathing is calm, but Bruce continues to hug him…just in case. He’ll let Dick break the contact when he’s ready to do so.

It’s only when Alfred enters the room, bearing a tray with two steaming mugs on it, that Dick finally releases Bruce. His face is pale but otherwise calm, and he’s stopped shivering. 

“Hot chocolate for both of you,” Alfred announces, handing each of them a mug. “Let’s get you warmed up.”

“Thanks, Alfred,” says Bruce.

The butler nods. With a quick glance at Dick, he busies himself gathering up the wet towels and pyjamas. “I shall be in the kitchen should you need anything, sir,” he tells Bruce. 

“Master Dick, I want you to finish every bit of that hot chocolate.”

“Yes, Alfred.”

The older man leaves and Bruce returns his attention to Dick. “Better?” he asks quietly. 

Dick nods.

“Why don’t you sit down to drink your hot chocolate?” Bruce suggests, indicating the armchair by the fire.

Dick does so, then watches with a wary edge when Bruce sits in the opposite chair. Bruce takes a sip of his hot chocolate, but doesn’t say anything.

After several minutes, Dick frowns. “Aren’t you going to ask what happened?”

“No. I’m not going to push you unless you want to talk about it.”

Dick looks surprised. “You’re not?”

“No.” Bruce leans forward in his chair. “I’m here if you want to talk, Dick, but that’s your call to make.”

Dick frowns again, chewing his lip. 

“But,” Bruce continues softly, “I want you to know that I did nothing but look for you while you were missing. You were my _only_ priority, Dick. Please don’t think you matter less to me than the mission because that’s simply not true. You matter more.” He shakes his head. “I would have done literally anything to bring you home. Hell, I’d do anything now if it meant I could change what happened to you. You don’t know how badly I wish I could have protected you from all of this. I blame myself for not finding you.”

“It wasn’t your fault. It was…it was _his_.” Dick’s face tightens and he whispers through clenched teeth, “I hate him. I hate him so much, Bruce. I wish he was dead!” Dick looks slightly scared by that admission, almost as if he expects Bruce to reprimand him. 

And Bruce can guess why: Batman has always insisted on no killing. But it’s amazing the shift your perspectives take when some monster spends days torturing your child just so he can get off on it.

“I spent the first night you were in the hospital imagining all the ways I could kill him,” Bruce admits quietly. 

Dick’s eyes widen and he stares at Bruce.

“I hate him too,” Bruce continues, “more than I’ve ever hated anyone. He’s a sick, evil, twisted bastard and I will go to my grave wishing I could have killed him for what he did to you.”

It’s a shockingly strong statement for Bruce to make, but he means every word of it. He can’t put into words the hatred and rage he feels towards Johnson for how much he made Dick suffer, and he’s not even sure if admitting this much is a good idea, but he desperately wants Dick to know that he understands at least some of what he’s feeling.

Dick is still staring at him, mouth slightly open and eyes totally shocked. Bruce doesn’t say anything more, waiting for Dick to process what he’s just said. 

It’s some time before the boy speaks again. “Do– do you think the parents of those other boys feel the same way?”

“Yes,” replies Bruce without hesitation. 

Dick nods slowly, as though understanding something, then takes a long drink of his hot chocolate. Bruce remains silent, remembering Dr. Carter’s advice about letting Dick lead the conversation. 

The boy is staring pensively into his hot chocolate, chewing on his lip once more. Bruce sips his own drink and waits.

Finally, Dick looks at him. “Bruce, do…do you think I’m weak?”

“Of course not!” declares Bruce at once. “Dick, why would you even think that?!”

“Because I…I let him hurt me,” Dick whispers. 

“You didn’t let him hurt you!” cries Bruce, lowering his voice when Dick jerks. “Dick, he drugged you, blindfolded you, tied you up…how could you possibly think you could have done anything against that?”

“Because I’m Robin. I should have been able–”

“No!” Bruce cuts across him. “Being Robin does not make you invincible, Dick. You’re only twelve-years-old and that cowardly bastard is bigger than me! There’s no way in hell you stood a chance against him.”

Dick just stares at him miserably.

“You know, some of those other boys were bigger than you,” says Bruce softly. “Should they have been able to defend themselves?”

“What?! No! Of course not!”

“Then why should you be any different?” Bruce wants to know. “Just because you’re Robin doesn’t make you any less vulnerable to an attack, especially against a much larger opponent. Even Batman can be taken down by someone bigger. You know that, Dick.”

“I just…I feel so pathetic,” Dick whispers. “I couldn’t stop him, and now I’m freaking out over every little thing.”

“Oh, kiddo,” says Bruce, putting down his cup and sliding to his knees in front of the boy. “You’re not pathetic. You’re as far from pathetic as it’s possible to get. Dick, you’re a survivor. You survived the most horrific ordeal that any human, not to talk of a child, could possibly experience. That makes you incredibly brave and strong.”

Dick shakes his head. “I’m not brave…”

“Yes, you are,” Bruce insists. “Dick, what you went through…I can’t even imagine how terrifying and painful it was. But you survived, and now you’re living with the memory of that hell every day, trying to deal with what happened when someone else might have given up. Bravery is facing the things that scare us, and you do that, kiddo, every single day. You ARE brave!”

Dick’s lower lip is trembling and his eyes are shimmering with tears. “I don’t feel brave. I feel like…I feel like I’m going crazy, Bruce. I keep losing it all the time! Sometimes, I– I even hear things that aren’t there…”

“What kind of things?” asks Bruce, keeping his voice neutral and hoping Dick won’t react badly to the question. He’s finally opening up and Bruce is wary of scaring him off.

“Him. I hear him,” whispers Dick. “And every time I do, I’m back there. He’s strangling me and I can’t do anything to stop it.”

And there it is, confirmation that Dick has been experiencing flashbacks and not panic attacks. Bruce swallows. It’s nauseating to think Dick has been reliving that hell over and over, that every flashback essentially leaves him a prisoner in his own head. 

Two tears slip down Dick’s cheeks. “Am I going crazy, Bruce?”

“Oh no, kiddo, no. You’re not going crazy.” Bruce places his hands around Dick’s, which are wrapped around the mug. “Flashbacks are a side effect of trauma sometimes, and they’re more common than you think.”

“Side effects?” Dick frowns a little. “Like…like PTSD?”

Bruce nods. “Exactly like PTSD. Do you know what that is?”

“It’s that thing soldiers get, right?”

“Not just soldiers. First responders like firefighters and paramedics can experience it too. So can anyone who’s been a witness to or a victim of violence.”

Dick’s frown deepens a little. “Do I have it?”

Bruce sighs. “It’s looking like it. But Dr. Carter can’t diagnose PTSD until the symptoms have been present for more than a month.”

“Like the flashbacks?” 

“Yes. Like the flashbacks.”

Dick bites his lip.

“What is it?” Bruce asks.

“I thought…I guess I always imagined that flashbacks were like really vivid memories. I didn’t…I didn’t think they would feel so real.”

Dick’s shoulders slump a little, and god, how Bruce wishes he could take this burden from him. “Flashbacks are probably different for every individual,” he explains. “There is evidence to suggest that children have more vivid memories of traumatic events, so it’s highly possible their flashbacks might feel more real.”

“What…what are the other symptoms?”

“Bad dreams, frightening thoughts, feeling angry, depressed, worried, guilty or stressed – sometimes all of those things,” Bruce answers. “Being easily startled, feeling tense or on edge, feeling emotionally numb, not being able to sleep… There are a lot of symptoms, and people can have them in different measures.”

“They sound a lot like me though, don’t they?” asks Dick quietly.

Bruce looks at him. “How would you feel if Dr. Carter diagnoses you with PTSD?”

“I dunno…it’d be nice to know I’m not going crazy, I guess.”

“You’re not crazy, Dick.”

The boy doesn’t respond. Instead, he tugs his hands out from between Bruce’s hands, and places his half-empty mug on the floor. Straightening up, he chews nervously on a thumbnail before looking at Bruce. “What if I do have it?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, can it be treated? Will I be able to be Robin again? What if I can’t get rid of it?”

“PTSD can be treated, Dick. And the earlier it’s treated, the better a patient’s chance at recovery. There’s no reason you won’t get better.”

“What about Robin?”

“That’s a bridge we can revisit once you’re well. But I don’t see any reason you can’t be Robin again – I have full faith that you’ll beat this thing.”

“You really think so?” Dick whispers.

“I do,” replies Bruce firmly. “You’re the bravest boy I know, Dick, and I’m going to be here, every step of the way. We’ll fight this thing together. I promise.”

Dick responds by throwing his arms around Bruce in a tight hug. Bruce hugs him back just as tightly, feeling tendrils of relief sprout inside him. He’s aware that Dick has a long road to recovery ahead of him, but tonight it feels like he’s taken his first step. He’s opened up to Bruce, and the chasm that’s been stretching between them seems to have shrunk. 

For the first time in weeks, Bruce has hope that he can help his son get through this.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who's left kudos and commented, I really, really appreciate it. Also, there will be a very short epilogue to this fic. I have finished writing it and it's gone to my beta, so it should be up within the next couple of days. 
> 
> Hope you're all having a lovely weekend.

Christmas comes and goes in a blur of nightmares, flashbacks and temper tantrums. The only difference is that Dick opens up to Bruce, talking about what he’s feeling or what’s setting him off. One night, after a particularly bad nightmare, he admits to Bruce that towards the end he had given up. That he had wanted to die.

Bruce reassures him it’s okay as he rocks him in his arms, tells him that he understands, but something breaks inside of him at the idea of his child being so terrified and in pain that death had seemed like the easier option. 

Gradually, talking to Bruce seems to reduce the frequency of Dick’s flashbacks. This is helped when Dr. Carter officially diagnoses Dick with PTSD – having a name for what’s happening to him seems to make Dick feel better, less helpless somehow. He reads up on PTSD with Bruce’s help and by the end of January, his temper tantrums have practically disappeared, although he is still having nightmares on a regular basis. The flashbacks continue to lessen, though their intensity and unpredictability remains the same.

When February rolls around, Dick surprises Bruce by asking if he can return to school. Bruce refuses at first – what if Dick has a flashback or a panic attack at school? But the boy is so desperate to get back to normal, and Dr. Carter believes it will benefit him, that Bruce eventually concedes.

He doesn’t sleep a wink the night before Dick’s first day back at school. 

Bruce knows he should try to relax. He’s talked to the principal – all the teachers are aware of Dick’s PTSD, and the school will contact him instantly should Dick experience a panic attack or a flashback. They will also monitor Dick carefully, without being obvious. But it does nothing to alleviate Bruce’s worries: Dick is still vulnerable and he knows how cruel children can be.

When he drops Dick off at school, Barbara Gordon is waiting by the gates. She’s been out to Wayne Manor several times to see Dick, as has Wally. Bruce knows they’ve both played a crucial part in helping Dick regain some normality, and he’s more grateful than he can say for that.

“You sure you’re ready, kiddo?” he asks. 

Face pale, Dick nods. “I’ll see you after school,” he says, then takes a deep breath and climbs out of the car with a determined expression.

Bruce watches him join Barbara and they walk into the school grounds together. Even in the car, he can hear the silence fall as the other children turn to stare at Dick. Bruce’s heart aches for him because he knows that’s how this entire day will be.

He spends his day anxiously waiting for the school to call, before finally leaving the office early to collect Dick. Much to his relief, Bruce finds the boy exhausted but happy. The morning had been filled with curious stares, but once the other kids had gotten over the surprise of seeing him back at school, most of them had treated him as usual.

Bruce finds out later from the principal that each class received a talk stating that Dick was to be left alone so he could settle back into school. He doesn’t know whether to be relieved or annoyed that Dick’s return was singled out, but as days two and three pass without incident, he lets it go.

On the fourth day, Dick has a flashback at school.

When Bruce collects his shaking, wrung-out son from the nurse’s office, Dick explains in a subdued voice that two boys had been roughhousing during PE and crashed into him, landing on top of him and triggering a flashback. 

His PTSD diagnosis is front page news the next day.

An enraged Bruce calls the school and discovers that the well-meaning PE teacher had told Dick’s classmates about his PTSD after Barbara had escorted him to the nurse’s office. It had gone around the school like wildfire and someone had obviously sold the story to the media.

At first, Dick is upset that everyone knows what’s happening to him; he doesn’t want people thinking he’s weak. But his anxiety reduces once he realizes he won’t have to worry about hiding the flashbacks or panic attacks. Determined to get his life back, he returns to school the following Monday, impressing Bruce with his resilience.

By the end of February, all of Dick’s injuries have fully healed and Bruce allows him to return to his Robin training. But he flat-out refuses to let the boy patrol. That would be dangerous and stupid since Dick is still having nightmares and the occasional flashback. 

Dr. Carter is pleased and surprised at Dick’s progress, although she cautions Bruce against celebrating too soon – Dick still has the trial to face, and that’s going to be anything but easy.

Bruce is concerned about that too, especially when he discovers Johnson’s lawyer is fast-tracking the trial – an almost unheard of occurrence since murder cases usually take years to come to trial. Johnson’s attorney pushing for his client’s right to a speedy trial bothers Bruce immensely because most defence attorneys try to _delay_ the trial, knowing that the more time that passes, the more unclear witness recall can become. What does the defence have to gain by pushing for a quicker trial date?

When Bruce speaks to Jim Gordon about it, the police captain informs him that he thinks the defence attorney doesn’t want to give Dick time to recover from his PTSD, that he’s probably hoping Dick won’t be fit to testify. Dick is the only person who can connect Johnson to a murder beyond Daniel Martin after all – the old lady with Alzheimer’s is not a credible witness. On top of that, the District Attorney’s office is also pushing for an early trial date to appease the public, who are outraged that it took so long to catch such a vicious child serial murder, and that his presence was kept from public knowledge. It doesn’t help that the parents of the other boys are flat-out demanding a swift trial date to punish the monster who murdered their children.

Bruce understands that those parents want justice for their sons, but doesn’t anyone care about the only boy left alive? Johnson has hurt Dick far worse than any person living, and it infuriates Bruce that no one seems to care if he’ll be forced to face the monster who brutalized him before he’s ready. 

Because he’s not ready. It’s been months, but the nightmares are still an almost nightly occurrence, while the unpredictability of the flashbacks hasn’t lessened – Dick had one last week after pulling his tie too tightly when getting ready for school. He hasn’t been able to wear the tie since, and Bruce has had to inform the school as to why so that Dick doesn’t receive a demerit. 

Despite this setback, Dick makes further progress during March, finally managing to snap himself out of a flashback without help. It makes him a little less afraid of them and boosts his fragile confidence. Not wanting to shatter that, Bruce says nothing about the defence fast-tracking the trial date, reasoning that even if they’re successful, it’s unlikely a date will be set before October.

When Dick decides to have a small party at the manor to celebrate his thirteenth birthday, Bruce knows he’s done the right thing. Dick is aware that he’s going to have to testify against Johnson eventually, but why stress him out about it until it becomes a reality?

His birthday party goes off without a hitch – no flashbacks, no panic attacks…just good, old-fashioned fun. Wally even comes under the pretence of being Dick’s penfriend, and spends most of the party trying to hit on Barbara, who’s having none of it. Dick finds the whole thing hilarious. 

It’s been months since Bruce saw him this happy. 

When the last of the guests leave, Dick gives Bruce a huge hug and whispers “thank you” before disappearing upstairs to play video games with Wally, who’s staying the night.

Riding high on adrenaline and happiness after the success of his party, Dick doesn’t have a single nightmare, flashback or panic attack for almost a full week. A week of calm and unbroken sleep does wonders for his mental health, and he starts asking Bruce about Robin returning to patrol. 

“Give it another month and we’ll talk about it,” Bruce tells him, pleased that Dick is showing an interest in his old life, but knowing it’s too soon to put on the mask. One week of no attacks doesn’t mean Dick can’t be triggered again.

Sometimes, he hates it when he’s right.

Bruce is reviewing contracts at Wayne Enterprises when his cell phone goes off. He glances at it briefly, intending to ignore the call until he sees Jim Gordon’s name flashing up at him. Something heavy settles in his stomach and he answers the phone.

“Captain Gordon?”

“Afternoon, Mr. Wayne,” replies the officer. “Sorry to disturb you, but do you have a few minutes?”

“Of course, Captain. What is it?”

The officer sighs deeply before responding. “There’s no easy way to say this, so I’m just going to say it – Ben Johnson’s trial date has been set.”

The weight in Bruce’s stomach grows. “For when?”

“May tenth.”

“May? _This_ May?!”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Jesus Christ! That’s not even two months away!” Bruce is horrified. This is so much worse than he’d been expecting. In his wildest dreams, he’d never imagined the trial taking place so soon. “How the hell is this happening?!”

“I don’t know. I’ve never in all my years on the force heard of a murder case going to trial so quickly – seven months after an arrest has to be some kind of record! But I’m guessing that the prosecution and the defence both pushing for a speedy trial date had a lot to do with it. Plus, this case is making waves in political circles as far away as Washington. Everyone wants it handled. Quickly.”

“Fuck!” Bruce runs a hand through his hair. “How the hell do they expect Dick to testify when he’s getting counselling twice a week for PTSD? He’s not going to be able to do this, Jim. He’s not ready.”

“Then I suggest you push for a continuance. Either that or have his psychiatrist write a letter to exclude him from testifying on the grounds that it will be harmful to his mental health. They’re going to make Dick testify otherwise, Mr. Wayne. Do whatever you have to to protect him.” 

Bruce frowns. “I thought you wanted Dick to testify?”

“I want justice for the children Johnson murdered, but not at Dick’s expense. We have his statement – if Dick can’t testify, then let’s hope that’s enough to have Johnson convicted of the other murders.”

Bruce is shaking his head. “How am I supposed to tell Dick? He’s been making so much progress…”

“I don’t know, but you’re going to have to tell him, and fast. This won’t stay quiet for long – the case is too high profile.”

“I know.” Bruce exhales. “Thanks for the heads-up, Captain. I appreciate it.”

“Of course. I’ll be in touch if I hear anything else. Good luck, Mr. Wayne.”

The officer hangs up and Bruce is left staring into space. His head is spinning; he still doesn’t understand how this is happening. His first instinct is to call his lawyer and have her push for a continuance, but one glance at the clock reveals that school lets out soon. He needs to tell Dick before word gets out about the trial. 

Bruce places a quick call to Alfred informing him that he will collect Dick. The butler is shocked by the imminent trial date, and distressed by its implications for Dick. He knows as well as Bruce how much the boy has suffered these last few months.

Before he leaves, Bruce delivers some instructions to his assistant, lets Lucius know what’s happening and gives legal the latest bunch of contracts to review. Unfortunately, getting out of the office unimpeded is always difficult, and he gets held up the R & D director in the lobby, resulting in the necessity of breaking several speed limits on the way to Gotham Academy. He doesn’t want Dick to get worried if no one is there to collect him.

Bruce reaches the school just as the bell rings.

Sitting in the car with his gut churning, he watches students pour from the building, laughing and chattering. Bruce wishes Dick could be as carefree as his peers, that he didn’t have this hell behind him as well as in front of him.

It’s several minutes before he spots Dick in the throng – the boy’s small stature always makes him hard to see. Barbara Gordon and a tall, lanky boy with glasses are with him, and they’re both laughing at something Dick is saying. Sadness washes over Bruce: it took months for Dick to joke again, although he still doesn’t do it as frequently as before, and now Bruce has to tell him something that might wipe the smile off his face for months to come. It’s not fair.

Dick sees the car and his forehead crinkles. Waving to Barbara and the boy, he heads for Bruce, climbing in with a, “Hey, Bruce, what are you doing here? I thought Alfred was picking me up?”

“Change of plan,” says Bruce, starting up the car and pulling out. “How was school?”

“Good. We have a field trip next month to the Discovery Museum in Bridgeport, and Mrs. Harrington says we can spend a few hours at the adventure park afterwards.”

“That’s nice,” says Bruce absently. What’s the best way to tell Dick about this? Should he wait until he gets back to the manor? Or would it be better to do it in the car when Dick doesn’t have Bruce watching him? Bruce read once that the best place to talk to teenagers is in the car because it feels less intimidating.

“So…” Dick’s voice breaks into Bruce’s musings, “I can go?”

“Uh-huh,” replies Bruce, still thinking.

He practically feels Dick’s stare burning into the side of his head. “You’re letting me _go?_ ” 

Bruce winces. Shit. He’s never let Dick go on a school trip because he doesn’t trust the security of most public venues – too many ways an opportunistic kidnapper could lay hands on the boy. He glances at Dick, whose eyes are wide, before returning his attention to the road. “I’ll think about it,” is all he can say.

There’s silence before a suspicious, “Bruce, what’s going on? Why’d you collect me instead of Alfred?”

Bruce sighs. Looks like the talk is happening now if he doesn’t want Dick fretting the whole way back to the manor. “I need to talk to you about something. And it will probably upset you.”

“O-kay…”

Bruce’s hands tighten on the steering wheel. “You know how we talked about you testifying against Johnson?”

“What about it?” Dick’s voice is clipped, defensive and apprehensive. 

“Well, it looks like that’s going to happen sooner than we expected – the trial date has been set.”

He chances another glance at Dick, whose face is pale. “Already? But…I thought you said these things take months, sometimes years, for a date to be set?”

“They usually do, but it looks like the prosecution and the defence have both fast-tracked this one.”

“When…when is it for?”

Bruce wishes desperately he could protect him from this. “May tenth.”

“ _This_ May?!”

Bruce nods. “Yes.”

“But…it’s…” Dick’s voice wavers. “Th-that’s only two months away!”

“I know,” he says softly.

There’s silence for several minutes.

“Are you okay?” asks Bruce at last, glancing at him again. He’s staring out the windshield in shock.

Dick shakes his head.

Bruce recognizes the potential start of a panic attack and quickly pulls into the nearest residential street. Parking the car, he releases his seatbelt and turns towards the boy. “Dick, talk to me.”

“Am…am I going to have to see him?” Dick whispers, gaze still fixed on the windscreen.

“I don’t think so. Gordon mentioned before about having you testify via video–”

“I don’t want to see him,” says Dick, a harsh edge of panic in his voice suggesting he hasn’t heard Bruce. 

“You don’t have to see him. We can work it so that you won’t be in the same room as him when you testify.”

Dick starts to shake. “I don’t want to see him. I can’t. I _can’t!_ ”

“You don’t have to–”

“He’s going to be everywhere, Bruce! Everywhere!” cries Dick, turning towards him. “I don’t want to see his face! I can’t see his face! I don’t want to know what he looks like!”

Dick’s eyes are wild and his breathing is verging on rapid, but for once, Bruce is more concerned with something other than a potential panic attack. “What do you mean you don’t want to know what he looks like? Dick, you’ve seen pictures of Johnson, you know what he–”

“No!” Dick shakes his head frantically. “I don’t know what he looks like! I don’t want to know!”

This is news to Bruce and he stares at Dick, dumbfounded.

“He blindfolded me, Bruce,” Dick reminds him miserably.

“But his picture was all over the news after you were rescued. How did you not see it?”

“You and Alfred hid all the newspapers so I wouldn’t have to see the headlines,” Dick explains, hunching in on himself. “And I changed channels when it looked like they might show his picture on TV. I…I have no clue what he looks like, Bruce,” he finishes in a whisper.

Bruce is shocked, appalled and disgusted with himself. How could he not have known this? “Dick, maybe it would be better if you knew…”

“And give me a face to make the nightmares and flashbacks even more real?!” Dick shoots at him, voice almost hysterical. “No way!”

Dick inhales sharply before Bruce hears his breathing hitch and stutter frantically. Shit! Panic attack. He quickly releases Dick’s seatbelt before reaching for him. “Dick, it’s okay, relax. Just breathe.”

He rubs Dick’s back soothingly while the boy trembles and tries to suck in air beside him. “It’s okay,” says Bruce softly. “I’m here, kiddo, just try and breathe – in through the nose, out through the mouth. It’s okay, shhhhh…”

Dick wheezes and chokes, gulping in air with frightened little gasps. Bruce feels sick. It doesn’t matter how often they’ve been through this, it still hurts to watch Dick in this state. And he knows it frightens Dick – the sensation of struggling to breathe is a terrifying reminder of what he endured at the hands of that monster. It makes Bruce rage at the unfairness of it all: even though the bastard is locked up, he can still hurt Dick.

“It’s okay, Dick,” he says again, hating how helpless he feels, how useless. “You’re safe. Come on, kiddo, just breathe – in through the nose, out through the mouth.”

He can hear Dick striving to comply, and after several minutes, the boy’s breathing starts to get a little easier. “Atta boy,” Bruce murmurs, still rubbing circles on Dick’s back. “Just breathe, nice and slow. Good boy, that’s it…”

Eventually, Dick’s breathing slows to a more normal pace, although Bruce can still feel him shaking beneath his hand. He stays silent, giving Dick a chance to collect himself.

“I hate this,” Dick whispers finally. 

Bruce slips his arm around him and pulls him into a tight hug. “I know, kiddo. I do too.”

oOo

Bruce is so on edge he thinks he might explode.

The courtroom is deathly silent, the scent of anticipation heavy in the air. Today is the day that Dick testifies, and despite Bruce and Gordon’s best attempts, the boy will be taking the stand. 

Bruce, Gordon and his lawyer still aren’t sure how this happened. Everything about this case, Dick’s _age_ , should have ensured that he testified via video link. But the defence had fought to put Dick on the stand, claiming that at thirteen he was old enough, that Johnson himself had been forced to testify in front of the jury, despite his overwhelming mental health issues, and that justice demands a fair trial. 

Bruce clenches his fist. There is nothing fair about forcing Dick, an innocent victim, a _child_ , to face the bastard who tortured him for days. Bruce doesn’t care about the horror stories Johnson’s defence attorney has spun about his childhood: Johnson stopped being a victim the instant he murdered a child! But Carl Simms – a cliché in every sense of the word, a defence attorney as slimy as his name – has done a good job of painting a tale of abuse so horrendous it would make hardened cops retch. Unfortunately, Johnson’s past is giving weight to his ridiculous ‘not guilty by reason of insanity’ plea, as evidenced by the fact that the judge agreed with the defence, and decreed that Dick should take the stand. 

He glares with hatred at Judge Murdoch. The man has a reputation for fairness and following the law to the letter, but Bruce is concerned that his neutrality will result in a reduced sentence if he perceives that Johnson was mentally ill in some way when he carried out his depraved, sadistic acts. 

Because Bruce doesn’t doubt for one second that the jury will find Johnson guilty. He saw the horror on their faces when the video evidence was played. Any sympathy they might have been feeling for Johnson’s past was obliterated while they watched Dick and Daniel Martin choking and begging for their lives as Johnson strangled them, enjoyment clear on his face.

Bruce clenches his fists so tightly that his nails draw blood. He’d watched those clips in the cave one night when Dick was in bed, and they had left him unable to sleep for days afterwards. What Dick had suffered was worse than he’d even imagined. Johnson’s violence and cruelty towards his son was beyond sadistic, and Bruce had honestly thought he might throw up as he watched Johnson torture Dick, while the child sobbed and begged for his life. His terrified cries will haunt Bruce for the rest of his life, of that he’s certain. What he isn’t certain of is whether he should tell Dick that he’s seen the video. He can’t be sure how the boy will react. 

A door opening breaks the silence of the courtroom, and Bruce whips around as Dick enters. The boy is wearing a dark suit, which only enhances the pallor of his skin and the shadows under his eyes. His hands are shaking as he walks up the aisle between the benches, and Bruce can see the absolute terror on his face. He aches to his very soul for Dick and has to restrain himself from leaping off the bench and taking him away from here. He wishes to fuck he had taken Gordon’s advice and gotten a letter from Dr. Carter that would have prevented Dick from testifying.

Except that hadn’t been an option.

Because despite the fact that this terrifies Dick, even though he’s been plagued by nightmares and flashbacks for the last week, leaving him emotionally wrung-out, Dick still _wants_ to do this. He’s determined to testify against Johnson, to get justice for all the boys who suffered at his hands. He argued for days with Bruce and Alfred about the letter, eventually getting so furious they gave in. Bruce is proud of his son’s bravery, but he wishes Dick had thought about what this might do to his emotional state.

He suspects Dick might be realizing that now though, darting a petrified glance in Bruce’s direction as he passes on his way to the stand. All Bruce can do is give him an encouraging, reassuring smile, while helplessness devours him from the inside.

There isn’t a sound as Dick makes his way to the stand, every eye in the room fixed on him. The courtroom is less packed than previous days. Aside from the judge, jury, defence and prosecution, Bruce, Jim Gordon and the other parents are the only ones permitted in. It was the one thing Judge Murdoch had conceded to the prosecution, closing the room to the public while Dick testifies to make it less intimidating for him.

It hasn’t worked. Dick looks ready to pass out as he steps into the witness box, eyes glued to the microphone so he won’t have to see Johnson. Dr. Carter had finally convinced him to look at a picture of Johnson almost three weeks ago, so Dick would know what he looked like before trial, but that hasn’t stopped Dick from avoiding all potential media images. He’s still not ready to see the man in person.

Johnson, on the other hand, doesn’t have that problem. The sick fuck is staring at Dick, what looks like a slight smirk playing across his lips.

Bruce growls under his breath and clenches his fists. He wishes he could annihilate that evil son-of-a-bitch!

“Easy, Mr. Wayne,” whispers Jim Gordon, sitting to his right. The officer’s face looks almost as grim as Bruce’s.

The bailiff approaches Dick. “Raise your right hand.” Dick complies and he asks, “Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth?”

Dick nods and his voice is small when he responds. “I do.” 

“Be seated.” 

With a quick glance towards Bruce, Dick sits and almost disappears behind the stand, his head now the only part of him visible. 

Bruce groans inwardly. They’ve forgotten the booster seat! The prosecutor did a run-through in the courtroom with Dick to prepare him, and they had used a booster seat because Dick had been lost behind the stand. And while not having it might make him look more vulnerable to the jury, Bruce is willing to bet that it also makes Dick feel small and defenceless – the last thing he needs right now. 

The prosecutor, Sara Cranwell, approaches the bench and positions herself so that she’s blocking Johnson from Dick’s view. Bruce is grateful for her attempt to make this as easy as possible on him. She’s been nothing but patient and gentle with him whilst going over his statement for court. She even took time to explain his role as a witness and the safety features keeping Johnson contained. Although Bruce isn’t sure how much of that last part Dick has taken in since he’s spent so much time stressing over being in the same room as Johnson. 

Dick glances nervously in Bruce’s direction again, and the sick worry knotting up his insides tightens. No matter how well Dick has done on all his run-throughs with the prosecutor, the defence attorney can shatter her familiar questions with a single objection. 

“Dick,” Sara begins in a calm voice, “we’ve heard your statement about what happened, and we’ve seen the videos, so I’m not going to ask you to relive all of that, okay?”

Dick relaxes a little at the rehearsed opening line and nods. “Okay.”

She smiles, but Dick doesn’t return it. “Can you state for the court that what you told Captain Gordon was the truth?”

“I was telling the truth in my statement,” Dick says, once more glancing towards Bruce, seeking reassurance. He manages a weak smile for the boy’s sake.

“Good.” Her face becomes more serious. “According to your statement, you said Mr. Johnson nearly always followed the same routine when he hurt you. Is that right?”

Dick nods. “Yes. He would take me out of the cage, give me water and then take me to use the bathroom before hurting me.”

“And in your statement, you said that Mr. Johnson behaved differently twice when he assaulted you, is that correct?”

Dick nods again. “Yes.”

“Can you tell me about the first time?”

Dick closes his eyes, exhales and opens them again before answering. “It started like always – he gave me water, took me to the bathroom and s-strangled me. But he stopped after a few minutes and that was different because it usually went on for a while. He was really quiet too, which was weird – usually he was yelling at me to…to beg. He stayed like that for a while and I didn’t move or say anything. I was…too afraid. But finally, he just came out and said he was going to kill me. That I would know he was going to kill me when he took the tape off and that he would be the last thing I’d see.”

Dick pauses and reaches for the glass on the stand, taking a sip of water before continuing. “He told me that killing was the greatest high in the world and that nothing felt better than someone’s last breath. That’s when he said he’d killed before, that he’d strangled other boys like me.”

“And was that the first time he told you that he had killed before?”

“Yes. I mean, he had mentioned ‘other boys’ before, but that was the first time he straight out said he’d killed them.”

In his seat, Bruce frowns. This is going a little _too_ well. Dick is calm, his voice even and steady, practically a monotone. 

“Did he ever mention the other boys again?” Sara asks, a small crease between her eyebrows. Bruce can tell that she knows something is off as well. Dick is being too calm, too composed. Even during his best practice sessions with her, his voice had trembled while recounting certain moments.

“Yes. He mentioned them a lot after that. He asked me several times if I was ready to die like them, and a few times he said he wondered if I would take as long to die as some of the other boys had.”

“Can you tell me about the other time Mr. Johnson behaved differently while he was hurting you?”

“It was towards the end, before I was rescued,” Dick answers, still in the same flat tone. “He had to carry me to the bathroom because I wasn’t able to stand up. But I didn’t need to go, so he got angry and threw me into a wall. Then he started hitting me and yelling at me. He told me he’d kill me if I wet myself, and that it wouldn’t be quick. He said he’d make me suffer like the other boys who wet themselves.” Dick glances at Bruce before looking back at her. “I told him to go to hell.” 

Something cold shivers over Bruce: Dick’s face is expressionless and his eyes are totally dead. 

“And how did he react to that?” Sara continues, appearing unfazed, despite the fact her star witness sounds like he doesn’t care about any of this.

“He lost it,” Dick responds. “He hit me over and over, then grabbed me by the throat and started bashing my head into the wall. I passed out at some point.”

Bruce is disturbed by Dick’s cold recounting of what Johnson did to him, especially since this is the part Dick finds hardest to talk about. Bruce knows this is the moment where Dick gave up, where he had wanted to die. Hearing him talk about it so casually is giving Bruce the chills because he can’t imagine what Dick has done to suppress the feelings that have overwhelmed him for months. He knows it’s probably a defence mechanism to get through testifying – both Dr. Carter and Sara Cranwell had warned Bruce this might happen – but he hadn’t believed that Dick would react like this. Not with how volatile his emotions have been over the last few months.

It’s obvious that the jury weren’t expecting this either. Some of them are watching Dick with confused expressions, and two of the men are frowning. Bruce understands their confusion: they’ve been reading for months about how poor traumatized Richard Grayson is suffering from PTSD, and now here he is, apparently devoid of any feeling whatsoever. Bruce hopes it won’t bias them – he’s aware that jurors have trouble believing victims who don’t behave as they perceive a victim should.

Suddenly, the prickling sensation of being watched creeps over him and Bruce glances to his left – Gavin Field’s mother is glaring at him with disgust. Bruce looks away quickly. She had approached him outside the courtroom on the very first day of Johnson’s trial, screaming that just because he was rich didn’t make his son’s life more important than hers.

That’s when Bruce had discovered not everyone is sympathetic towards Dick. Some of the parents of Johnson’s other victims are angry that Dick was saved when their sons died. One of the fathers has even accused the police of playing favouritism by rescuing Bruce Wayne’s son, while allowing the other boys to die. Their anger and bitterness has shocked Bruce, and he prays that Dick never finds out about their feelings – the guilt would crush him.

“Thank you, Dick,” Sara is now saying. “No more questions, Your Honour.”

The judge nods. “Does the defence wish to cross-examine?”

Carl Simms gets to his feet. “Yes, Your Honour.”

The sick feeling in Bruce’s stomach churns violently. This is the part of Dick testifying that’s concerned him the most. Carl Simms is known for his ruthless tactics during cross-examination, and he was suspiciously silent during the prosecution’s questioning.

Simms walks over to the witness box, where Dick is now staring fixedly at the microphone once more. He stops directly in front of Dick, blocking Bruce from his view, while at the same time ensuring a clear view of Ben Johnson.

Bruce’s protective hackles rise immediately and he instinctively moves to stand. 

Gordon’s hand grabs his arm. “Don’t!” he hisses in a low voice.

Reluctantly, Bruce settles back in his seat, grinding his teeth and squeezing his fists viciously. That slimy son-of-a-bitch! He’d obviously spotted Dick glancing at Bruce for reassurance and this is his vindictive attempt to throw him off. 

“So,” Simms begins, “Dick– do you mind if I call you Dick?”

“Yes,” the boy answers shortly, surprising a snort of laughter from one of the jurors.

“You mind if I call you Dick?” Simms asks, fake surprise in his voice.

“Only my friends call me Dick. I don’t know you.” An edge of wariness and hostility colour Dick’s voice.

“But…Ms. Cranwell is your friend?” Simms inquires, just the right amount of suspicion in his voice.

There is a moment of silence before Dick responds. “I…I know her.”

“Oh, I see, you _know_ her. So, you’re friendly with the prosecution then?” 

The inflection in Simm’s voice is like a red rag to Bruce’s rage and he gives a choked growl of fury. Gordon’s hand, still on his arm, tightens.

“Objection, Your Honour!” Sara Cranwell calls. “Defence is making implications about the witness’ relationship with the prosecution when it’s common practice for both sides to prepare their witnesses for court.”

“Sustained,” responds Judge Murdoch. “Mr. Simms, you will keep your questions to the context of this case.”

The man nods. “Yes, Your Honour.” He turns back to Dick. “Alright, Richard,” he enunciates Dick’s name, “why don’t you start from the beginning. Tell me what happened in the bathroom the night you were abducted from The Hilton.”

“I…I can’t. I don’t remember what happened.”

“You don’t _remember?_ ” Simms repeats, the fake surprise evident in his voice once more. 

“No.” 

“So, let me get this straight, you don’t remember being abducted, but you do remember what happened in the water treatment plant?”

“Yes.” Dick’s voice is smaller and less certain now.

“Huh, interesting,” Simms comments. “And how well do you remember what happened in the water treatment plant?”

“Very well,” Dick answers.

“Very well,” Simms repeats. “Are you sure? Because in your statement when Captain Gordon asked you how many times my client hurt you, you told him maybe eleven or twelve times, you said you weren’t sure.”

“That’s because it was hard to keep track of time when I was being drugged,” Dick responds. “But I remember clearly the things he said to me while he was hurting me.”

“You remember _clearly?_ ” Simms repeats Dick’s words again. “But according to the medical report from the hospital, your eardrums were ruptured and you were having problems with your hearing when you were admitted, so it wouldn’t have been possible for you to hear things clearly, isn’t that correct?”

“It was only towards the end it got harder to hear,” Dick answers, his voice wavering slightly. 

Bruce wants to explode. He knows Sara prepared Dick for the possibility that Simms would take this line of questioning, but he’s still furious that the man is actually doing it. He had so hoped that Gordon was right when he’d claimed that no defence attorney would risk questioning Dick harshly in case it biased the jury towards him, and especially not a defence attorney who’s going for the sympathy vote with his client’s tale of childhood abuse.

“So, you’re saying it didn’t get harder to hear until towards the end?” Simms clarifies.

“Yes.”

“But by your own admission, it was towards the end that Mr. Johnson behaved differently for the second time and mentioned the other boys in detail, so wouldn’t that mean that you didn’t hear him clearly?”

“I did hear him clearly,” Dick insists. “He was yelling at me.”

“You heard the things he said to you?”

“Yes.”

“So, even though you had ruptured eardrums which affected your hearing, even though you were injured and recovering from being drugged, even though you were being beaten and yelled at, and were likely suffering from sensory overload, you were still able to hear very clearly what my client was saying to you?”

“Yes,” Dick responds, voice wavering. 

“Impressive, Richard. I don’t think I’d have been able to process everything accurately if that had been happening to me.”

Dick remains silent. 

“Alright, Richard, let’s go back to where you asserted that my client mentioned ‘other boys’. Did he ever mention any other boy by name?”

“No.”

“Did he ever give details about where he’d buried these ‘other boys’?”

“No.”

“Did he ever tell you exactly how many boys he had killed?”

“No.”

“So, other than mentioning ‘other boys’, you have no proof that he actually killed them?”

“He told me he killed them. He said he strangled them like me.”

“But couldn’t he have been saying that to scare you?” 

“He was strangling me!” Dick bursts out. “He didn’t need to say anything – I was already terrified!”

“I’m sure you were,” says Simms with mock sympathy. “I’m sure the whole experience was absolutely terrifying and overwhelming.”

Dick doesn’t respond.

“Why don’t you tell me how you felt, Richard?” asks Simms suddenly.

“What?”

“Tell me how you felt whenever Mr. Johnson attacked you.”

“Objection!” Sara calls. “The witness’ feelings while he was being assaulted aren’t relevant to the defendant’s actions or motivations, and they’re not relevant to proving guilt.”

“Richard’s feelings at the moment he was being attacked reflect his state of mind during the attack,” Simms counters immediately. “And his state of mind speaks to how clear his recall of the event actually is.”

“I’ll allow it,” says the judge. “You will answer the question, Mr. Grayson.”

Bruce wants to howl at the judge. He saw the video evidence of what Johnson did to Dick! How can he think the boy would have been anything other than terrified in that moment?! Why would he force him to talk about that in front of everyone? Where the fuck is his humanity? Has he no compassion for a victim who’s only a child?!

Leaning sideways in an effort to peer around Simms bulky frame, Bruce tries to catch a glimpse of Dick’s face. The boy’s voice is yo-yoing between the flat monotone and shaky uncertainty, and Bruce has no idea what that means for his current frame of mind without seeing his face. But it’s useless; Simms is planted right in front of Dick, blocking him from Bruce’s view.

“Richard,” Simms repeats in an impatient voice after a minute of silence, “how did you feel when Mr. Johnson attacked you?”

After several seconds, Dick answers quietly, “Terrified.”

“And that’s it?” Simms demands. “You didn’t feel pain? Desperation? Helpless? The desire to go home? The desire for someone to save you?”

“No, I–”

“No, you didn’t feel anything else?”

“No, I mean yes. I mean–” 

“What do you mean?”

Bruce hears Dick exhale shakily. “I felt all those things as well.”

“So, you were terrified, desperate and in pain. You wanted to go home, you were helpless, you were blindfolded, drugged, being strangled…but you still remember clearly everything my client said to you, even though you can’t remember how he abducted you or how many times he hurt you?”

“Yes.” Dick’s voice is a whisper.

“I have to admit, I find that impressive, Richard. Most adults wouldn’t be able to remember clearly given how overwhelming the assault would have been.”

“I have a good memory.” 

“But not good enough to accurately recall exactly how many times the assaults took place? Or even remember what happened in the bathroom when you were abducted?”

Dick falls silent again.

“Richard, are you sure you remember as much as you say you do?”

“ _Yes!_ ”

“Then why is it that you can only remember what happened in the water treatment plant, but not the bathroom? And why is it you can’t remember how many times the attacks happened when you can remember in detail what my client said?”

“I don’t…I don’t know.”

Bruce resists the urge to vault over the railing and pound the defence attorney into the ground. He knows exactly what the bastard is doing. He’s asking leading questions and repeating questions already asked to increase Dick’s frustration and confusion. It’s a common tactic used to confuse witnesses, especially child witnesses, and it’s also a good way of creating reasonable doubt in the minds of the jury by suggesting the witness is lying or mistaken. Sara had warned Dick about this tactic, but Bruce can tell that the boy has forgotten as he crumbles under the pressure.

“Richard, I know you’re trying to help the police, but lying in court is a crime.”

“Objection!” cries Sara, at the same moment that Dick yells, “I’m not lying!”

The judge frowns deeply. “Overruled, but Mr. Simms, you will get to whatever point you are trying to make, and get to it quickly.”

“Of course, Your Honour,” says Simms in a pleased tone. “Richard, isn’t it possible that your memory of things has been a little skewed by all the media coverage surrounding my client’s case?”

“What? No!” 

“Are you sure? Maybe the police’s efforts to find the murderer of those unfortunate boys has influenced your desire to help?”

“No! I–”

Are you sure?”

“Yes!”

“Let me read an extract from your statement,” counters Simms, walking back towards his table and giving Bruce a view of Dick for the first time since cross-examination started. Dick is chalk-white and frazzled-looking, his eyes still glued to the microphone. Bruce can tell by the set of his mouth that he’s struggling to contain himself – Simms is getting under his skin.

Simms retrieves a sheet of paper from his table and scans it. “Richard, during your statement, you told Captain Gordon that, and I quote, ‘he said he’d killed before, that he’d strangled other boys like me. I mean, I’d kind of guessed but _I didn’t find out how many until after_.’” 

Simms puts the paper back on the table and looks at Dick, who is now staring at his lap. Bruce burns with helpless frustration. He knows Dick is doing that so he won’t have to see Johnson, but to the jurors, it probably looks like Dick is hiding something. 

“I didn’t find out how many until after,” Simms repeats harshly. “You found out that thirteen boys had been murdered by strangulation only after you’d been rescued! Isn’t it possible, that in your traumatized state, you related to what had happened to them and your memory of what happened to you became a little confused, resulting in you remembering things that didn’t happen, but which might help the police…such as remembering my client talking about his other victims when that didn’t happen at all?”

Without looking up, Dick shakes his head violently. “No! He said those things. He told me about the other boys…he even mentioned them on one of the tapes the police have!”

“Actually, what my client said on that tape was that ‘you were tougher than you looked, but the others weren’t’. It’s a statement that could mean absolutely anything and carries no indication of guilt.”

“He killed Daniel Martin,” Dick counters in a shaking voice. “The police have that on tape.”

“The police have one murder on tape. Other than your statement, the police have no evidence that my client killed those other twelve boys. Richard, you’ve already admitted your memory of the assault isn’t completely clear–”

“No, I didn’t! I–”

“You admit that you can’t remember how you were abducted, or how many times Mr. Johnson attacked you, so it stands to reason that you don’t remember the things he said as clearly as you claim.”

“Yes, I do! I–”

“And given that your hearing was damaged, it’s also possible that you misheard a lot of what my client said to you. How do you know he didn’t talk about the one boy he killed – Daniel Martin – and that you just misheard boy as boys? Or else substituted boys for boy afterwards when you heard about the other murders?”

“I didn’t! He–”

“No one would blame you, you know,” Simms interrupts in the most nauseatingly fake sympathetic voice Bruce has ever heard in his life. “You went through a terrible ordeal, and studies have proven that trauma affects memory recall, especially for children.”

“Actually, the most recent study on child trauma found that children are more like to vividly remember something that happened to them directly as opposed to something they witnessed!” Dick shoots back.

Simms jerks, clearly shocked by Dick’s response. Bruce is a little stunned himself. Where the hell did Dick find that study?

“You keep suggesting that what happened to me is so bad and overwhelming that I couldn’t possibly remember it,” Dick rushes on, “but that’s what makes it so clear in my head! It was five days of pure hell and every second of him hurting me is scratched into my brain – I wish I could forget but I can’t! Every time I close my eyes, I remember what he did! I can _hear_ the things he said – and he talked about boys, _plural_.”

“I’m sure _you_ believe that’s what he said,” Simms counters, clearly trying to regain some ground. “But we’ve already established that you can’t remember what happened in the Hilton or how many times he hurt you, so it’s natural to assume that your memories of those days are inaccurate.”

“They’re not inaccurate. It’s just hard to remember how many times someone has hurt you when they do it constantly.” Dick’s eyes are hard but calm. It’s like referencing that study grounded him somehow. Bruce supposes that since facts help keep him calm, it’s only natural that Dick picked up elements of that trait too. 

“If what happened to me happened to you, Mr. Simms, you’d remember it pretty clearly as well,” Dick finishes, staring down the lawyer, his face pale but determined. 

Bruce has never felt prouder of his brave boy than at this moment.

“Richard, I’m not saying my client didn’t hurt you,” Simms counters smoothly, trying to misrepresent Dick’s words. “We have video evidence that shows he did. I’m merely suggesting that your memory of what happened isn’t quite as clear as you think.”

“I know what you’re suggesting and I’m telling you you’re wrong,” Dick retorts bluntly. “No offence, Mr. Simms, but you’re not in my head and you don’t know what I remember. And I remember everything he said. I won’t ever forget it.”

“Is that right?” another voice interjects, and it takes Bruce a split second to realize that it’s Johnson. “Good to know you won’t forget me.”

Rage erupts in Bruce’s chest, but Gordon grabs his arm, preventing him from reacting. 

The judge pounds his gavel. “Silence, Mr. Johnson. Speak out of turn again and I’ll have you removed from this court.”

Johnson stares at the judge before returning his gaze to Dick. Bruce sees a smirk flit across his face before he says, “I won’t forget you either, especially what you sound like when you beg.”

Bruce _snarls_ , jerking to his feet and dragging Gordon with him as the courtroom erupts.

Outraged protests echo from the other parents, mixing with Sara Cranwell’s cries of ‘objection!’ and the furious pounding of the judge’s gavel.

“Order!” the judge shouts. “Order in the court! Bailiffs, remove the defendant. ORDER!”

Bruce is still on his feet, struggling against Gordon and practically spitting with fury, as two burly guards move over beside Johnson. When he remains sitting, smirking at Dick, they cuff him and drag him to his feet. 

“Mr. Wayne,” Gordon is hissing, both hands gripping him tightly. “Mr. Wayne!”

Bruce ignores him. He wants that bastard’s _blood!_

“Mr. Wayne, sit down,” the judge orders, giving one bang with his gavel.

“I know you’re angry,” the captain whispers urgently, “but Dick needs you to be in control. Please, Bruce, sit down.”

Dick’s name breaks through the blind rage, and Bruce anxiously seeks out his son as Gordon tugs him down onto the bench again. The boy is on his feet in the witness stand, pressed against the wall with his eyes wide, staring in terror at where the guards are escorting Johnson from the courtroom. He’s shaking violently and sucking in fast, jerky breaths. Then his hands come up to claw at his throat.

Bruce’s heart plummets as he recognizes the start of a flashback. _Shit! Not here!_

Fortunately, Judge Murdoch seems to realize that something is up. “We’ll reconvene at two p.m. this afternoon,” he announces quickly, rapping the gavel against its podium. “The jury is excused.” He waves impatiently towards Bruce with a ‘come here’ gesture.

But Bruce is already rushing for the witness stand, slamming the gate against the railing as he does so. He’s beside Dick in seconds, grabbing his hands from where they’re scratching at his neck.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” he says urgently. “It’s not real. C’mon, Dick, listen to my voice; you’re safe. Shhhhhh!”

Dick shakes his head frantically and whines. Bruce can feel him trying to pull his hands away and squeezes them gently. “Dick, it’s okay, I’ve got you.”

Dick gives a choked cry and then jerks – once, twice, three times.

“Dick!” Bruce calls, hyperaware of everyone staring. “Dick!”

Christ, the media are going to have a field day when this gets out.

“DICK! Come on, kiddo, _please!_ ”

Dick sucks in a massive breath and Bruce feels his hands slowly stop their frantic tugging. He blinks several times before his blue eyes focus on Bruce.

“Dick? You back with me?” Bruce asks carefully.

Still gasping for air, the boy responds by reaching for him with a whimper.

Bruce immediately pulls him into a gentle hug. “It’s okay, kiddo, it’s okay. Just breathe for me. Shhhh. I’ve got you, it’s okay.”

How many times has he said that when it’s clearly not okay?

Dick is shaking and clutching his suit jacket, half-hiccupping as he gulps in desperate breaths. 

“It’s alright,” Bruce soothes, “he’s gone. I’ve got you, you’re safe.”

Dick nods, like he’s agreeing with Bruce, before his legs suddenly go out from under him and he slides to the ground. Bruce drops with him, still holding him carefully. This is better. Dick is hidden from prying eyes: half-crumpled on the floor of the witness stand, out of the other parents’ sight, and half-slumped against Bruce where the jury – now filing out – can’t see him. 

“Shhhhh, I’ve got you, kiddo,” Bruce whispers, rubbing soothing circles across his back. “Come on, breathe for me, in through the nose and out through the mouth.”

He can feel Dick’s body straining and trembling as he tries to comply, but it takes several long minutes before the choking and gasping for breath stops, and several more before his breathing quietens. Bruce keeps his arms around him the whole time, rubbing his back and murmuring soothing, useless nonsense to him. 

“I…I…did it…” Dick gasps, still shaking hard. “I did it…I testified.”

“Yes, you did,” says Bruce hoarsely. “I’m proud of you, Dick. I know how hard that was.”

“I did it,” Dick whispers, looking up at Bruce, and there’s an odd look on his face: some mixture of disbelief, happiness, shock, relief and fear. “I really did it.”

Bruce nods and gives him a small smile.

“I did it,” Dick repeats, like he can’t believe it. “I…I faced him, Bruce. Jo-Johnson. I faced him.”

It’s the first time Dick has said that name. Bruce tries to hide his shock. “Are you okay?”

Looking dazed, Dick gives a slow nod. “I did it,” he says again. 

“You did it,” Bruce confirms, before hugging him tightly. He can feel Dick squeezing back.

After a minute, Dick pulls back. He looks exhausted. “Can we go home?”

“Absolutely, kiddo. Think you can stand?”

Dick nods and gets to his feet, still shaking like a leaf. Bruce clambers to a standing position with a little less grace; he’s somewhat stiff from crouching so awkwardly between the courtroom floor and the door frame of the witness box.

It’s then he realizes they’re not alone – Judge Murdoch, Captain Gordon and five parents are still here.

“Are you alright?” Judge Murdoch asks Dick in his gruff voice.

Dick nods. “Y-yes, sir.”

What might be a smile darts across the judge’s stony face. “You’re a brave young man. I admire what you did here today.” He nods at Bruce before sweeping down from the judge’s platform and into his chambers.

“Ready to go home?” Bruce asks quietly, putting a protective arm around Dick’s shoulders. 

Dick nods. 

They walk towards the railing together and Gordon opens the gate to let them through. “Well done, Dick,” he tells the boy. “You did great.”

“Thanks, Captain Gordon,” replies Dick. He sounds wrecked, and Bruce is anxious to get him home, especially once he realizes that Gavin Field’s mother is still sitting in one of the benches.

 _Please don’t say anything to him!_ he begs silently. _Not after what he’s just been through._

But she doesn’t approach them. In fact, Bruce can see that she’s crying, devastation plain on her face. Her grief strikes something deep in Bruce, something he’s been aware of but never really _felt_ until now.

That had almost been him.

Not knowing whether to feel relief or sorrow, Bruce tightens his hold across Dick’s shoulders, guiding him carefully from the courtroom.

oOo

Dick watches the jury file in and tries to swallow the massive lump stuck in his throat. He wishes his heart would stop thumping so hard.

Bruce, sitting beside him with his right arm around Dick’s shoulders, uses his left hand to grip Dick’s and gives it a reassuring squeeze. Alfred, sitting to Dick’s right and holding his right hand, does the same. On the other side of Bruce, Captain Gordon leans forward and shoots Dick a supportive smile. 

Dick tries to smile back, but he’s not sure if he manages it. Johnson is sitting fifteen feet from him and Dick is literally shaking with nerves. He knows the man can’t hurt him, but it’s still frightening being in the same room, especially since he keeps turning around in his seat to stare at him. Dick can feel Bruce leaning forward to block him from view, shooting Johnson murderous looks as he does so.

He hadn’t wanted Dick here for the verdict. Neither had Alfred or Captain Gordon for that matter, but Dick had insisted. He _has_ to do this; he needs to see this through. Testifying last week had been nauseatingly petrifying, but Dick has felt so much stronger since. Testifying felt like fighting back, and facing Johnson has made him feel like less of a victim, regardless of how much he went to pieces afterwards.

Dick’s cheeks burn a little. His breakdown in the witness box had been front-page news for days, something he found totally mortifying until Bruce had shown him what the media were actually saying about him: brave, inspiring, courageous, tough, fighter, determined… Dick had been shocked to discover the media saw him that way.

And then, Naomi Achebe, a highly-respected Pulitzer Prize winner, had written an article for the Gotham Post about how the definition of real courage was being afraid of something, but doing it anyway. Somehow, she had found out that Dick could have been excused from testifying, but had chosen not to because he wanted justice for all of Johnson’s victims. Achebe had written her story from that angle and talked about how people could learn a lesson in facing their demons from the thirteen-year-old who had fought back against a real-life monster.

Dick still finds it bizarre to see himself talked about in such glowing terms, but also…kind of good. If other people see him like that, then maybe he’s not as weak as he supposes. Bruce certainly seems to think so – he framed the Achebe article and put it in his study, telling Dick how proud he is of his bravery.

Dick looks up at the man in question and Bruce gives him a smile. It’s intended to be reassuring, but Dick can tell by its tightness how on edge Bruce is.

His nerves return. He hadn’t been here for the closing arguments, but Bruce told him about them. That sneaky Mr. Simms talked a lot about how Johnson was abused as a kid, how his past messed him up so that he doesn’t really know right from wrong. Simms actually argued that the fact Johnson spoke to Dick during his testimony was proof that he doesn’t understand consequences or reality, so he can’t be held accountable for what he did to Dick and Danial Martin. As for the other boys, Mr. Simms insisted it would be a huge injustice to find the man guilty of those murders based on a traumatized boy’s shaky testimony when there isn’t a single shred of forensic evidence to prove he killed them. 

Dick scowls. He knows it’s Mr. Simms’ job to defend Johnson, but it hurts to have someone claim he doesn’t remember what happened to him when it’s all so horribly vivid in his head.

Bruce squeezes his hand again and Dick glances at him. He knows Bruce is worried that Simms’ closing arguments might have influenced the jury. He’s worried that they won’t find him guilty by reason of insanity, and that’s why he doesn’t want Dick here. 

Dick knows this because he overheard Bruce and Alfred talking about it, but he still can’t wrap his head around that being a possibility. Johnson was clever enough to abduct him from a crowded hotel with lots of security. The jury saw Johnson strangle him on tape! They saw him _murder_ Daniel Martin in the exact same way as those other boys! How could they possibly find him anything other than guilty?! 

Dick freezes. If they don’t find him guilty, does that mean…he gets to walk free? 

He fails to swallow his whimper and immediately feels Bruce pull him closer, while the people in front of them turn around to stare. In fact, there’s a lot of people staring. Dick wonders if they’ll think he’s so brave after watching him cling to Bruce and Alfred’s hands like some little kid.

The door to the judge’s chambers opens and Judge Murdoch sweeps in.

“All rise,” calls a bailiff Dick can’t see.

There’s the sound of shuffling as the packed courtroom clambers to its feet. Dick’s legs feel like jelly and he thinks he might be sick as he watches Judge Murdoch take his chair.

“Be seated,” he orders, and the room complies.

The bailiff who swore Dick in walks over to the jury and the blond lady sitting in the first seat hands him a piece of paper. He takes it back to the judge, who reads it. Dick can hardly breathe and he squeezes Bruce and Alfred’s hands so hard it probably hurts.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, have you reached a verdict?” Judge Murdoch asks.

The blond lady in the first juror’s chair stands up. “We have, Your Honour.”

“Will the defendant please rise,” the judge addresses Johnson.

Johnson and his lawyer stand up. Dick tenses and holds his breath. On either side of him, Alfred and Bruce are doing the same thing.

Judge Murdoch addresses the jury, “To the charge of murder in the first degree, how do you find the defendant?”

The blond woman reads off the paper she’s holding. “For the murder of Daniel Martin, we, the jury, find the defendant guilty as charged.”

Relieved sighs run around the courtroom, while on either side of Dick, Alfred and Bruce relax slightly. But Dick remains frozen, eyes fixed on the blond woman.

“On the other twelve counts of murder in the first degree,” Judge Murdoch continues, “how do you find the defendant?”

“On the remaining counts of murder in the first degree, we find the defendant…guilty as charged.”

Dick’s cry of relief is drowned out by the cheers that erupt in the courtroom. Slumping against Bruce and closing his eyes, Dick exhales, head spinning dizzily as all sorts of feelings explode inside him. Guilty! He’s been found guilty! The jury believed him!

Bruce’s arm around him is squeezing tightly, pulling him closer, his jaw resting against Dick’s hair, while Alfred now has both his hands clamped tightly around Dick’s and is shaking it gently. The relief from both men is palpable.

“Order!” the judge calls, banging his gavel when the cheers continue. “Order!”

The courtroom quiets down and Dick opens his eyes as Judge Murdoch addresses the jury again, “To the third charge of the abduction, imprisonment and assault of a minor, how do you find the defendant?”

The blond woman looks up from her paper. “For the abduction, imprisonment and assault of Richard Grayson, we find the defendant guilty as charged.”

There’s another small smattering of cheers, to which the judge once more bangs his gavel and calls for order. Dick feels light-headed with relief.

“Thank you, members of the jury for your service,” says Judge Murdoch, before turning back to look at Johnson. “Mr. Johnson, you have been found guilty by a jury of your peers on all fifteen charges against you. And while sentencing usually takes place at a later time, it is within my power to pronounce sentencing here. I am going to exercise that power.”

There’s a visible stilling throughout the courtroom. On either side of Dick, Bruce and Alfred stiffen. He can feel his own apprehension rise as he stares at Judge Murdoch – he’s gotten the impression that the man is almost unfairly fair when it comes to criminals…is he going to give Johnson an easy sentence?

The judge clears his throat before addressing Johnson. “You murdered thirteen children. Not only that, you terrorized them during their last few days on this earth, ensuring a horrible, painful death. You also abducted and tortured another boy who would have likely died the same way if not for the work of Gotham PD. And I don’t believe for one second that you weren’t completely aware of the pain you were inflicting on those children, you just didn’t care. This was very clear to me when you addressed Richard Grayson during his testimony. It wasn’t that you didn’t ‘understand’ the consequences or social implications like Mr. Simms has claimed, you did so knowing full well the emotional impact it would have on a boy you brutalized and tortured.” 

Judge Murdoch’s expression is hard as he stares Johnson down. “That cruel, malicious act indicates a serious lack of conscience for the pain that you’ve inflicted. Combine that with the violent nature of the murders you committed, and I am compelled to pronounce the maximum sentence possible.”

The judge pauses before continuing, “For each charge of murder in the first degree, I sentence you to life in prison. For the abduction, imprisonment and assault of Richard Grayson, I sentence you to thirty years, with all sentences to be served consecutively. Bailiffs, please take the defendant into custody.”

The cheers that erupt are deafening. All around Dick, people are applauding, including Captain Gordon, but Dick is too overwhelmed to move. Thirteen consecutive life-sentences! Johnson is never getting out. The judge even gave him thirty years for what he did to Dick! Dick hadn’t thought that would happen – he’d assumed his survival made his charge a lower priority in the eyes of the court.

“You okay, kiddo?” Bruce’s voice sounds in his ear.

Staring at the bailiffs leading away a shocked-looking Johnson, Dick nods. “It’s…it’s over,” he whispers. “It’s really over.”

“Damn straight it’s over – that bastard is going to rot in prison!” says Bruce viciously.

“Master Bruce, language!” reproves Alfred, giving him a world-class look.

Dick manages a shaky laugh, before hugging Alfred tightly. Then he turns to Bruce and lets his guardian pull him into a bone-crushing hug. 

“Thank you,” Dick whispers, squeezing back as hard as he can, “for being there.”

“I’m always here,” Bruce replies in a low voice. “Always. And I’m so proud of you, kiddo. This was all you. He’s going away forever because of how brave you were.”

The pride in Bruce’s voice chokes Dick up a little and he hugs Bruce tighter. 

When they finally pull apart, Bruce is smiling. “I’d say this calls for a little celebration. What do you say to some pizza and ice-cream?”

Dick grins. “Yes, please.”

Captain Gordon’s face appears on the other side of Bruce. The officer is beaming as he holds his hand out. “Well done, Dick, you did it.”

“Thanks, Captain Gordon,” says Dick, shaking his hand. “But it wasn’t all me. We wouldn’t be here if you hadn’t caught him. I…I wouldn’t be here. Thank you for saving me.” Dick is whispering as he finishes, and he realizes that this is the first time he’s thanked the officer properly.

Captain Gordon’s smile dims slightly. “Son, I am happier than I can say that you’re here safe and sound.”

Dick gives him a small smile.

“Jim,” says Bruce, “why don’t you and Barbara join us for something to eat? It’s nice to finally have something to celebrate.”

“Oh, we couldn’t intrude–” the officer begins, but Dick cuts him off because he can’t think of anything he would like more at this moment.

“Please, Captain Gordon?”

The officer gives him a smile. “Alright. I’ll make a quick detour to collect Barbara and you can let me know where you’re heading.”

Dick beams.

They get to their feet and shuffle into the aisle only to realize there’s a small group of people waiting for them. Beside Dick, Bruce freezes. “Can I help you?” he asks warily, putting his arm around Dick’s shoulders.

“We want to thank Richard,” one of the women answers and something in Dick’s stomach lurches when he recognizes Gavin Field’s mother. These must be the parents of the other boys.

And they’re all staring down at him. Dick suddenly feels incredibly small.

Gavin Field’s mother crouches down in front of him. “Do you know who I am?” she asks softly.

Swallowing hard, Dick nods. “You’re…Gavin Field’s mother.”

She nods in response, and Dick can see that her eyes are brimming with tears. “My name is Louise,” she whispers. “I want to thank you, Richard–” 

“We all do,” one of the men interrupts. “We know you didn’t have to face him, to take the stand like that, but you did. Because of you, we got justice for our kids.” He gives Dick the saddest smile he’s ever seen. “Thank you.”

There’s a low murmur as the other parents echo his sentiments, and then Gavin Field’s mother speaks again, her voice wavering as tears spill down her face, “My baby can finally rest in peace knowing the man who hurt him was punished for it. Thank you, Richard. Thank you for reminding me that people care.”

Dick feels a lump in his throat. “I’m…I’m sorry about what happened to him…t-to all of them.”

Louise Field gives a broken sob before reaching into her jacket pocket and pulling out a pink stone. “M-my Gavin liked to collect rocks. This was one of his favourites – he found it o-on our last v-vacation to-to-together.” She gives another sob before wiping her eyes. “It’s…it’s rose quartz and he thought it was cool that it’s actually shaped like a flower.” She holds the stone out to Dick. “Rose quartz is supposed to promote healing and good fortune. I want you to have it.”

“Oh, no. I cou–”

The woman presses it gently into his palm before folding his hand closed and placing her own hand over his. “Please,” she whispers. “After what you’ve done for my baby, for all our kids, he’d want you to have it.”

Dick swallows and nods.

Louise Field gives a watery smile and cups his cheek. “You brave boy. Thank you…so much.”

Dick smiles back at her as best he can.

With a final, gentle squeeze to his hand, she lets go and gets to her feet. “Thank you, Mr. Wayne,” she addresses Bruce. “And…I’m sorry.”

Dick isn’t sure what she’s apologizing for, but Bruce nods back at her. “I’m sorry too,” he says quietly. 

Tears still running down her cheeks, Louise Field smiles before leaving. The other parents follow, although a few of them stop long enough to shake Dick’s hand.

Eventually, Dick is left alone with Bruce, Alfred and Captain Gordon. He opens his hand and stares down at the rose quartz.

“Dick, are you okay?” asks Bruce. 

Still staring at the stone, Dick thinks about that: is he okay? 

There’s a warm, floating feeling he can’t identify bubbling in his chest. It feels…nice. Soothing even. And the panic that’s been his ever-present, suffocating companion these last few months suddenly feels very far away, as does the guilt that’s been biting at the edges. More importantly, Dick feels lighter, _safer_ , than he’s been in a long time.

And then he realizes what the warm, floating feeling in his chest is – hope.

Dick closes his hand around the stone once more. Is he okay? The honest answer is no, not completely but… 

He looks up at Bruce with a smile and answers, “I will be.”


	9. Chapter 9

Batman watches Robin swoop down onto the muggers, cackling gleefully.

He lands, quite literally, on the head of one before vaulting onto another. The men are so shocked they barely have time to react. Within two minutes, all three are sprawled across the pavement, groaning. It’s an impressive achievement for the boy’s first night back on patrol.

Robin picks up the discarded purse and dusts it off, before walking over to the woman sitting on the ground. “Are you alright, Ma’am?” he asks, holding out her purse to her.

“I– I think so,” she stammers, taking her purse with a shaking hand. “Th-thank you.”

“Do you need me to call you a cab?” 

The woman shakes her head. “My apartment is just around the c-corner. I was…I was only walking home from work! Th-this is a good neighbourhood…I don’t understand…”

“Sometimes bad things happen,” says Robin quietly. “But the good mostly outweighs the bad, so try to focus on the good stuff, okay?”

Batman purses his lips. He’s noticed that Robin’s ability to empathize with victims has increased. The boy has always been better at reassuring them than Batman, but tonight he seems to know exactly what to say to make them feel better.

The woman nods and Robin holds out his hand to help her up. “Let me walk you to your apartment,” he says, offering her his arm.

The woman is at least six inches taller than him and Batman sees her lips give an almost involuntary twitch as she takes Robin’s proffered arm.

He watches the boy escort her down the street, the tension he’s been feeling about tonight finally draining. Robin has done well, taking down several criminals efficiently. In fact, Batman has noticed that his punches are sharper, his kicks more streamlined and his tactics more skilled – the extra training is really paying off.

More importantly, his old confidence has returned – there was no hesitation, uncertainty or fear tonight. Batman had been concerned, despite five weeks of no nightmares, flashbacks or panic attacks, that fighting crime would trigger something. He didn’t want to allow Robin out on patrol, but the boy had begged, pleaded and badgered until Batman had finally agreed to a one-night trial.

He’d even spoken to Dr. Carter – whom the boy is still seeing once a week – and she had told him that “healing doesn’t mean the damage never existed, it means it no longer controls our lives,” before pointing out that a massive part of Dick’s recovery will hinge on getting his life back to normal. It’s the thing he’s striving hardest for, and Dr. Carter feels the only way to know if Dick is ready is to let him try.

Of course, she thinks ‘acrobatics’ means a gymnastic class. Batman is fairly certain she would feel differently if she knew it meant swinging from rooftops and tangling with dangerous criminals.

He sighs as the wind on the rooftop picks up and whips his cape around him. Despite the success of this evening, he still feels it’s too soon – it’s only been seven weeks since Johnson was found guilty. He doesn’t deny that Dick has made huge progress: the verdict did wonders for reducing his anxiety, while the media praise of his bravery helped him feel like less of a victim, and the gratitude of the other victims’ parents decreased his guilt. Most importantly, the nightmares, flashbacks and panic attacks have stopped. But Batman – Bruce – knows that PTSD is an insidious thing which can strike anytime, even when you think it’s gone.

“Alright, B-man,” chirps a young voice from behind him, “what’s the verdict?”

Batman turns to find Robin behind him, grinning up at him. “You were too showy during the last takedown. That many flips are unnecessary: it takes longer to defeat your opponent and leaves you open.”

Robin rolls his eyes. “You just want to find something to criticize. Admit it, I did good.”

Batman remains silent and after several seconds, Robin sighs. “Alright, alright. I did too many flips. I’ll watch that in future.”

“Good. On the plus side, your punches are sharper and your kicks are neater. Have you contacted the police?”

“On their way now to pick up the three morons.”

“Then it’s time for us to go home.”

Robin groans. “Aw, man. Please, Batman, just another half hour?”

“It’s one a.m. and we had a deal.”

Robin pouts. “Alright, fine.”

They return to the car. As Batman pulls out, he can practically feel Robin vibrating with adrenaline beside him.

“Soooooo?” the boy quizzes.

“So, what?” 

“Argh, c’mon on, Batman! You know what – do I get to return to Robin duties full time?”

Batman swipes a glance at him, but doesn’t respond.

“I didn’t freak out,” Robin reminds him, a little nervously, “not once. And I know I did too many flips that last time, but I still took down three of ‘em by myself. I can do this, Batman, I’m ready.”

“We will start at patrolling one night a week for four hours, and work from there.”

“ _One night?!_ You’ve got to be kid– I mean, that’s fine. Totally fine,” he backtracks at a sharp glance from Batman.

There’s silence for a few minutes before Batman asks, “How do you feel after tonight?”

“Honestly?” Robin’s voice is soft. “I feel like… _me_ again, Batman. I needed this.”

Batman nods. He’s beginning to understand – being Robin is an inherent part of who the boy is, but he hasn’t been able to access that part of himself for almost eight months.

They’re nearly back at the cave when Robin stretches and says, “So. Why didn’t Superman say hello?”

“What do you mean?”

“You _really_ think I didn’t notice him floating around when we broke up that drug deal in the narrows?” 

Beneath the cowl, Batman’s eyes twitch. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Robin laughs. “C’mon, B, he’s Superman! The dude doesn’t know how to do stealth – he stuck out like a sore thumb at least three times tonight!”

_Damn boy scout_ … Batman sighs in irritation. “Alright. I asked him to tail our patrol tonight as a precaution. I didn’t want you left vulnerable if I were occupied in the event of…” He hesitates, not wanting to shake the boy’s confidence. 

“Go on, you can say it, in the event of a flashback.”

Batman nods. “It’s not that I didn’t trust you. I just thought it better to take some security precautions.”

“It’s okay, Batman,” says Robin and his voice is amused rather than annoyed, “I get it. You’re the kinda guy who likes to back up his back-up.”

Batman represses a smile.

“But you didn’t actually back up your back-up…did you? I mean, Martian Manhunter wasn’t floating around somewhere as well? ‘Cause I wouldn’t have seen him with that camouflage thing he can do…”

“There are ways of spotting a Martian in camouflage mode if you know what to look for, but no, J’onn wasn’t there tonight.”

“Okay, cool. But…um…you think we can do the next patrol without back-up?”

Batman glances at him. “Provided there are no major emergencies, yes.”

Robin makes a pleased noise. Then, after a moment, “How _do_ you spot a Martian in camouflage mode? And, wow, that sounds like the opening to a bad joke!”

This time Batman smiles.

“No, seriously, Batman, how do you know if a Martian is in camouflage mode?”

“They can’t blend seamlessly to their surroundings – there are certain disturbances in the air around them.”

“Can you show me what to look for?”

Batman hits the button to open the hidden entrance to the cave before glancing at him. “You want me to add that to your training?”

“Uh, yeah. I need to know that stuff if the League, you know, turns evil or something.”

Batman sighs. “You are spending too much time with Kid Flash.”

Robin snorts. “Like you don’t have a dozen contingency plans in case anyone in the League goes rogue!”

Batman doesn’t respond. He had seventeen at last count.

“Do you think anyone else in the League has a contingency plan for evil Leaguers?” Robin continues.

“They’d better,” Batman answers shortly, guiding the car into the cave entrance. “A rogue Leaguer would be a very dangerous thing indeed.”

“Well, not if you’re prepared. I mean, Superman could be taken down with kryptonite, right? But not the green one ‘cause that can kill him if he’s exposed to it for too long− the red kryptonite that drains his powers. And once he’s incapacitated, you could work on fixing whatever had turned him evil in the first place. And Martian Manhunter and Aquaman are susceptible to heat, so you could totally use that to weaken them. Or with Flash, if you synthesized high-density polyurethane foam that he couldn’t vibrate his molecules out of, then you–”

“Robin,” Batman interrupts, parking the car and turning to face him with a frown, “how do you know what the League’s weaknesses are?”

Robin blushes. “Um…I may have hacked your files a few weeks ago?”

Batman’s eyes narrow.

“I was bored, okay! You wouldn’t let me patrol and I wanted to read up more on some of the Leaguers I don’t know so well.”

Batman turns off the car. “Are you…interested in the League?”

“Well, yeah. I mean, if I’m going to join them one day…” Robin frowns. “You are going to let me join, right?”

“When you’re old enough, but…”

“But, what?”

“It’s interesting that you’re talking about the League like this. According to Green Arrow, Speedy has been pestering him about membership ever since he turned eighteen. And Flash says Kid Flash has been asking a lot of questions.” 

Robin shrugs. “Well, we’re interested in what the League does. I mean, our mentors are founding members and we all want to join someday.”

Batman studies him. “You’re serious about joining the League?”

Robin gives him an exasperated _are-you-for-real_ look. “Of course.”

“Then perhaps I can organize an induction day for you and the other protégés, maybe a tour of the League headquarters.”

“You mean the Hall of Justice?! Like, for real? Batman, that would be awesome!”

“I’ll speak to the other members about organizing something for next week. Maybe on the fourth when–”

“YES!” Robin fist pumps the air. “I’m so available on that date! We all are! Totally available!”

“It’s Independence Day, Robin. Your friends may have plans.”

“I promise you, they won’t have plans once they hear this!” Robin’s grin is manic. “Oh, man, what time is it in Central? Is it too late to call Wally?”

“Since it’s after one in Gotham and time for bed, yes, it is too late to call Wally.”

Robin slumps a little as Batman hits the release for the hood of the car. “Killjoy.”

“Robin…”

“Fine, fine. I’ll go to bed.” He vaults out of the car and removes his mask just as Alfred joins them.

“Good evening, sirs. How was tonight’s patrol?” The butler’s voice is smooth, but Batman can see his nerves in the tightness around his eyes.

“It. Was. _Awesome!_ ” Dick informs him gleefully, performing a little dance. “Robin is back in business!”

Alfred’s face relaxes. “I’m very pleased to hear that, young sir. There are some turkey club sandwiches waiting for you upstairs, so if you would wash up and change, please…”

“Okay, Alfred.” Dick turns to Batman. “Are you going back out?”

“Just for a few hours.”

“Okay. See you in the morning.”

He darts towards the showers, and Alfred turns to Batman. “ _Did_ everything go well, sir?

Batman nods. “Better even than I’d hoped. He needed this, Alfred. I think he’s really hit the turning point.”

The smile that crosses Alfred’s face is the most genuine he’s expressed in months. “That boy’s resilience never ceases to amaze me.”

“Me either,” Batman admits softly, before hitting the button to make the car turntable spin. “I’ll be a few hours, Alfred. You head on to bed with Dick.” 

“Very well, sir. Breakfast at eleven?”

“No, nine. I have an important League meeting to prepare for next week.”

“I will see you then, sir. Good night.”

“Night, Alfred.”

The hood slides back over the Batmobile and Batman peels out.


End file.
